by Shaw, O. C
Emma and I are going to have to spend the evening talking about you then.
I laugh as I read it.
Never doubted it. You would have done that anyway, have fun x.
It’s kind of weird to know they’re becoming such good friends because of me.
I don’t go to the gym after work, figuring I’m still on credit after all the walking at the weekend, and instead buy the ingredients for a steak and salad dinner, grabbing a bottle of wine at the last minute.
Am I feeling guilty? I wonder as I go about preparing things at home. I should do; I’ve been unfaithful. It crosses my mind I should tell Greg. What would he do if I did? I honestly don’t know. I’m not sure if he would actually even care. How would I feel if the shoe was on the other foot? Again, I’m not really sure. Not all that bothered, really, if it meant he didn’t want sex all the time, I think. I didn’t always feel like that, I realise. Not in the beginning. I would have been devastated if Greg had gone elsewhere. Somehow, over the course of the eighteen years and in the midst of child care responsibilities, I’ve stopped caring. Has Greg too? I honestly don’t know. We never speak about ‘us’, we have always just got on with it, really, like most people do – don’t they?
James, on the other hand… the thought of him with other women makes me surge with jealousy. I have no right to expect anything from him after three days of albeit intense relationship (on my part). It could have been anyone, I reassure myself. It has just woken me up to what’s missing in my marriage, and any feelings are better than no feelings. I need to concentrate on that and work out what I can do to improve my relationship with Greg before I start condemning my last eighteen years of marriage, I realise. With renewed focus I go about dinner preparations. Greg comes in as I’m pouring a glass of wine for us both. He pauses for a moment, looking at me.
“What’s all this for?” Am I really that obvious? Do I so rarely make an effort that when I do it’s noteworthy?
“Nothing, really. I just thought it might be nice to have a glass of red with our steak,” I say brightly. Greg just shrugs and sits down without washing his hands. That bugs me, but I hold back from commenting. He would call it nagging. He doesn’t wait for me to sit down before he starts, inhaling the food at his usual rate – he can rival a dog at times. I watch him for a moment before sitting down and starting to pick at my own serving. My appetite really isn’t there these days, and Greg wolfing down his food with so little regard for how it tastes only makes it worse.
“You should eat,” Greg eventually comments, as he pauses from eating for a moment to sip at his wine. “You’re losing too much weight.” I’m genuinely surprised; I didn’t know he’d even noticed. “I prefer you bigger,” he shrugs. I smile; it’s nice he wasn’t bothered about my larger size. He used to be – I wonder when that changed?
“I’m just trying to be a bit healthier, you know – lose some weight, do some exercise. It’s not good for me to be carrying the excess now I’m getting older,” I try to explain. He looks straight at me as he holds his glass in front of him, elbows on the table. His expression says he doesn’t believe me. Does he think I’m doing it to attract other men? I wonder. Am I? Well, I did, but I wasn’t expecting to – I didn’t set out with that in mind. I just wanted to improve myself, my life.... my marriage? Maybe, if I’m being really honest with myself. I look down at my plate and cut some steak, deliberately taking time in the movements and chewing slowly to break the intensity of his stare. Does he know about James? I suddenly wonder. Maybe one of the other members of the group saw me with him, maybe they knew Greg and told him? No, I decide, he wouldn’t be this calm. I feel at the same time reassured and anxious at the thought. What would he do if he did find out? I’m not sure I want to know, and for the first time I feel anxiety about the potential storm I’ve sewn into my life.
By the time we have both finished and I’ve cleared, washed and put everything away it’s gone nine. Greg is already in the lounge watching T.V. He looks up as I enter.
“Thought you were going out?”
“I put it off ’til next week.”
“Why?”
“Thought I’d been out enough recently, and I’d stay in with you for a change.” It’s nonsense, really. I hardly ever go out; the last few weeks have been a complete exception. We spend nearly every night sitting side by side on the sofa watching crap T.V. exactly as we’re doing now. I’m behaving weirdly, I know, but I don’t seem able to stop myself. At this rate I’m going to be blurting out I’d fucked someone else in the Peak District before we get to the weather on the news at ten.
In the end we sit there in silence, as we always do. After the weather I brush my teeth and get into bed. Greg is a few minutes behind me. We both read our books for a few minutes, although actually I just lie there holding my book and staring at the page, my mind whirring over what I know is about to happen. Eventually I can delay the inevitable no longer. I put the book down, lean over and turn off my lamp. Greg holds out for another couple of minutes and then does the same. I hold my breath in the darkness, wondering for a second whether Greg is going to leave me alone for a second night when I feel the tentative brush of his fingers against my thigh.
This is it, I think as I feel him move towards me. I try to relax my body and disconnect my mind in an effort to give myself over to the sensations and the moment, but every touch feels intrusive. What is wrong with me? I want to cry out. He touches my breast, teasing the nipple until it’s erect before kissing it. In the dim light cast into the room from the street I watch his head bobbing over my breast dispassionately, my body ramrod-straight. I can feel his erection already nudging my side. It’s a routine I’m well familiar with – breast, kissing, clit (if I was lucky), penetration – we would be done in 10 minutes. I roll towards him, grasping his length in my hand and beginning to jerk him off, hoping to speed up the inevitable process. I can feel him swell and harden further under my touch, a small groan escaping his lips. After several minutes he pushes my hand away as he nears his limit, wanting to come inside me. He rolls me onto my back and pulls himself over me, uncaring that I’m nowhere near as aroused as he is, his knees pushing my thighs wider when, at first, they resist. I can feel I’m dry as a bone as he pushes inside me. Greg is too far gone to notice my lack of involvement as his body presses heavily over mine, thrusting into me. I hate it, I realise as I lie there. I hate how he continues relentlessly, despite my obvious lack of participation, I hate feeling used – like a whore must feel. I especially hate that he will remove the last traces of James from my body. At the moment when he finally comes I feel a tear run down the side of my cheek and into my hair as he fills me, immediately withdrawing to the other side of the bed when he’s done. I lie there long after his snores start, wondering what I’m going to do. Could I return myself to the stupor of the last eighteen years and be happy with that? Now I had experienced the difference in what life could offer, would I really be able to accept my lot? I don’t know. I fear not.
In the morning after my shower I look at myself in the mirror – watching my hair return to its habitual frizz, and realise whether I like it or not my life is sucking me back in.
Chapter 18
The rest of the week is exactly the same as my life has always been with a couple of small exceptions. With Adam away at university and Ethan working most evenings, Greg and I are alone together most nights until Ethan gets home in the early hours. The silence between Greg and me is intense, emphasising the fact that most of the noise in our family has been centred around the kids and not each other. It exacerbates the gulf I feel has emerged between us. I’m not sure if Greg feels it when he’s with me or not. He is spending even more time painting than usual, often waking me up when he comes to bed to have sex. Each time follows the same pattern as the first night of my return. As the week wears on, though, Greg seems to relax a little, back into his more usual miserable self. It’s almost a relief compared to the silent, tense Greg I observed at first on
my return.
The second thing which has changed is that I’m starting to write. In those quiet moments when Greg is painting and I’m not at work, I will pull up Adam’s old laptop and write. It’s amazing how many hours I can lose in the process, and how resentful I feel when forced to stop and attend to either Greg’s or Ethan’s needs. I don’t fool myself it’s any good – it’s a crime thriller with a strong female lead – but I love the sense of fulfilment as the story comes together in my mind and I struggle to capture its essence on the page.
My hours of writing have come at the cost of the gym, and while I’m still eating sensibly I know I need the exercise. In part I wonder if I’m avoiding going for some reason – because of James? On Saturday morning I decide it can’t wait any longer, and I gather my things. Greg is already in the shed painting, so I leave him a note before getting in the car and driving the short distance to the gym.
As I walk into reception Stuart’s beaming smile greets me. “She’s alive!” he says in the style of Dr Frankenstein in the movie.
I smile. “How are you?”
“Good. More to the point, how are you? We haven’t seen you in ages. I thought we may have put you off exercise forever.”
“Not at all,” I grin, “just busy at home.”
He looks at me closely as if searching for something in my face, before saying in a more serious tone, “Everything okay? People were actually worried about you.” He doesn’t say who, and I don’t ask.
“Of course, I’m fine,” I say in my usual bland tones before heading off to the changing rooms quickly to prevent the conversation going further.
Pete is in the gym when I re-emerge, and he greets me with a warm hug. It’s nice to feel like he’s a good friend now. He mentions having seen Annie a couple of times over the week at the gym and that she had said she was seeing me at The Anchor on Tuesday.
“You should come,” I say more out of politeness than because I was really thinking he would want to. I certainly don’t expect him to accept.
“Sounds great, that’ll be fun. Like old times,” he says with a wink before heading off to complete his workout. Before he leaves, as he’s walking out the door he calls out, “See you Tuesday.”
I see Stuart look straight at me, and I blush. My thoughts are distracted during the rest of my session while I wonder how I’m going to yet again explain to Emma the additional person at our pub on Tuesday. As I shower and change I decide advanced warning is probably best, and I send both her and Annie a text.
Pete from the gym just invited himself to the pub on Tuesday – hope you don’t mind? L x
As ever, Emma replies almost instantly – she must sit constantly by her phone!
It will be nice to meet ‘Pete from the gym’. Good to hear from you, by the way, I’ve been worried.
She’s silly the way she worries about me, but it’s nice to know someone does. Annie’s response is more direct:
When will you learn! C u there x
She’s right, I have to learn to say no, I think, as I exit the gym and head towards the car park. I’m distracted by the potential awkwardness of the evening to come and don’t notice the sound of steps behind me until a hand grabs my arm and pulls me round. I squeal like a girl with the shock until I come face to face with an angry pair of blue eyes. James stands there holding my arm as if he’s afraid I’m going to run away, looking mightily pissed off as he glares down at me, his body shaking with tension. My heart does a little hop, skip and a jump as I hungrily gaze at his beautiful face. It seems impossible, but I have almost underestimated his beauty in my memories of him. He stands there in jeans and a polo shirt, with trainers, looking impossibly handsome and fit with his toned body, the muscles on his arm taut with tension as he holds me.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he says angrily.
I’m taken aback. “What do you mean, where have I been? I’ve been at home,” I say somewhat obviously, completely bewildered by his anger.
“Get in the car,” he says, seeming even more pissed off if possible. I look to see which car he means to find him indicating a sleek Mercedes. Of course, I think. What else?
“I’m meant to be going home,” I say anxiously, looking at my watch before looking back at James. He looks like he’s going to explode, literally. His voice is frighteningly quiet when he finally says,
“Get in the fucking car, Lily, or so help me God I am going to throw you in there myself, and I don’t care who sees me.” He means it, he actually means it, and while a part of my mind is terrified by the raw power and aggression coming from him, another part of me is thrilled to be the focus of such emotion. With one last look in the direction of my own car, I obediently follow him to his, where he opens the passenger door, sees me in and closes it behind me as if afraid I might run off on him. He then stalks round to his own side, gets in, starts the car and begins to drive. I have no idea where we are going, and he seems in no mood to tell me.
We eventually drive for about thirty minutes along the coast to Seaford which has a quiet undeveloped seafront, a rare treasure on the south coast of England. It’s quiet where he pulls the car in, just a few people exercising on the promenade and a couple of dog walkers. No one I recognise. I chuckle as I look at the pair of us sitting there gazing out to sea. He turns to look at me when he hears the noise.
“What’s so funny?” he growls, trying to maintain his angry tone.
“We are,” I say, “sat here like all the old folk do on their weekend days out, gazing out to sea.”
He smiles at last, acknowledging the truth, before taking a breath and saying, “I was so worried,” I frown to hear it as he continues: “no one had seen you or spoken to you after we got back, you cancelled seeing Annie at the pub on Tuesday, and you haven’t been to the gym all week.”
My mouth drops open, as I am astounded how much he knows about my week. “Stuart told me when you normally work out – I’ve been there every day waiting for you. Bloody hell, I’ve never been to the gym so much in my life!” He sounds grumpy again now. “Then I get a call from Stuart to tell me you’re there today, completely out of character. I dropped everything and ran, terrified you would vanish again before I got a chance to see you... to talk to you.” My eyes feel huge in my face as I listen to him. “Do you know how close I came to coming to the house?” he says quietly.
“No!” I whisper, horrified at the prospect of Greg meeting James face to face.
“Yes,” he says. “I didn’t know what he might do to you if you told him anything. You could have been hurt.” He stops then to catch his breath and compose himself. My heart is beating like a jackrabbit. It had never really crossed my mind James would be worried about me, looking for me, wanting anything more of me than the night we had had together despite what he had said. I look at him, his brow furrowed as he rests his head against the headrest, and I am filled with an overwhelming urge to ease the distress that is written all over his face. I reach over with my hand and cup his cheek gently. He turns his face, at the same time as bringing his hand up to capture my hand which is now pressed against his lips, and kisses my palm. The sensation sends a thrill straight through to my groin, as ever. He sees it in my face, the slight widening of my pupils and shortening of my breath. Instant desire is written all over me. I think I see a flash of relief in his eyes as he moves towards me, pressing his lips to mine, first gently and then with urgency until we are both panting. I eventually pull away before we end up being done for indecent exposure, but he keeps his hand on my thigh as if now he has me there he is unable to stop touching me.
“I want you, Lily,” he says, his eyes smoking at me now. I feel as if the desire in his gaze could ignite my body and turn me to ashes. I want him too. I know I do, but real life is calling, and if nothing else, I have always had a sensible head on my shoulders. I turn back, away from him, to look at the sea.
“I need to get back, I need to get home,” I murmur, unable to look away from him. He is instantly a
ngry again. “He’ll be wondering where I am,” I try to explain.
“I don’t give a fuck!”
“He’s done nothing wrong.”
“Hasn’t he?” The way he says it implies he thinks he has. I wonder how much he knows about Greg beyond what I have told him.
“I have to get home,” I say again, more assertively this time. He hears the difference in me.
“Okay,” he says, resigned, “but first promise me two things.”
“What?” I say, wary now.
“First, give me your phone number. I promise I’ll be careful, but I need a way to talk to you when I can’t see you. I need to know you’re okay.” I’m still thinking about it when he says: “Secondly, I need to know when I can see you. Properly. I don’t care when, but I want some time with you.”
The air leaves my body with a whoosh. This feels like a major tipping point, a shift from a simple one-night stand to a full-blown affair. I feel like I’m gasping for air, and I can’t think straight. I go for delay tactics.
“I’ll give you my number, but I can’t give you a day yet. I need to check my shifts and commitments at home.” It’s a fib, but I realise I need to think carefully before I embark on this. I think he knows my inner turmoil too.
He stares at me. “This will happen,” he says with complete certainty. “You can run for now, but you will come to me in the end. We’re meant to be, you and I. I’ve never been so certain of something in my life.” I don’t know what to say, what can I say to that? “Number?” he demands. I tell him, and he programmes it into his phone. Then he calls me, and I hear my phone ringing from within the confines of my gym bag. “Now you have mine too,” he says simply, before turning on the engine and heading back to town.
We’re mostly silent on the journey back. His hand reaches and clasps my own. It stays like that for the majority of the journey, a precious connection for a few minutes. As we pull into the car park I remember something I had wanted to tell him that had flown out of my mind until now.