What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story)

by Shaw, O. C

  “I’m writing,” I suddenly say. He beams at me, clearly delighted with the news. I smile back, equally pleased with his response. The car park has filled up now, and I’m nervous to be seen getting out of his car – it’s the kind of car that draws people’s attention to it without really trying because it’s so pretty. Even I think that, and I don’t give a toss about cars. I glance quickly around to see if there is anyone I know before grabbing my bag and moving to open the door. I can feel he wants to kiss me again, but I know I can’t let him. I stand up quickly before my resistance fades and almost run to my car, slamming his car door behind me. As I get in I collapse against the seat, trying to compose myself enough to drive home. I have no idea yet how I am going to explain my extended absence to Greg. I know James is still sitting in his car watching me, waiting for me to go first, so I start the engine and pull away slowly, aware almost immediately of the sleek shape of the Mercedes following on behind. He follows me all the way home, slowing as I pull into the driveway before speeding up again. So now he knows where I live, if he didn’t already. I’m not sure what I feel about that as I make my way in to Greg.

  Chapter 19

  I needn’t have worried – Greg is still locked in his shed painting when I get home. I have spent the rest of the day writing and thinking about James. After I got in and realised my hastily made-up excuses were not required, I had unpacked my gym stuff to wash it and looked at my phone. I had agonised about what name to save James’ number under. In the end I decided in this instance honesty was the best policy, so I left it as ‘James’. The first text came in as I was saving the contact. It simply said,

  Don’t forget to check your schedule and let me know. J x

  It felt weird, looking at a text from another man in this house, knowing what it was talking about even though it seemed innocuous enough at face value. It felt more deceitful somehow and I felt guilty for the first time. I had replied simply: ok, afraid that if I didn’t at least acknowledge it he would be at my doorstep banging on the door.

  When Greg finally emerges from the shed towards tea time he is distracted in the way he gets when his art has taken him over. I have always loved that about him – that he can become so involved in his creation that his ability to interact with anything outside of his art is completely reduced to nothing. Unfortunately it also makes him difficult company. He is short-tempered, dissatisfied with the delay until food is ready because he wants to get back down to his painting. Ethan arrives home and immediately winds his father up over something relatively minor, and before I know it there are raised voices and doors slamming. They both insult me over my choice for dinner. By the time I finally take myself off for a bath and bed, I am wondering what possible reason I could have for hesitating about spending time with a man who enjoys my company and is caring towards me. It would make a pleasant change, I think. Before I can change my mind again I text him:

  Wednesday afternoon is free, from 12.30 until 6 if that is any good for you?

  The response is almost instantaneous.

  Yes. Thank you. I will make sure you don’t regret it.

  My stomach clenches at his words, wondering what he has in mind for us as I drift off to sleep.

  I don’t know what time Greg came to bed that night as, for once, he didn’t wake me. It must have been very late. He’s already up again and painting when I finally get out of bed, so I decide to go straight to the gym and then spend the rest of the day writing. I feel trepidation as I walk into the gym, but no one I know is there, not even Stuart, so I move efficiently around the equipment before showering and returning home to my book. My creative juices are flowing, as the words run from my head to the page easily. Ethan is out all day serving at a posh society wedding somewhere in the country, so I have the house to myself, and I only pause to make a sandwich at lunchtime. It seems pointless to prepare a roast just for Greg and me, so I decide we can have Chinese takeaway for once, which gives me more time to focus on the book. When Greg finally finds me, it is gone eight and he’s wondering where his dinner is.

  “Oh, I thought we’d have Chinese,” I say, taken aback by the time and standing up quickly to rifle through the hall cupboard in order to find the menu.

  “What were you doing?” he asks, peering at the text still up on the screen.

  “Oh, nothing, really,” I say dismissively, feeling embarrassed. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for more details. “I’m trying to write a book.” It feels silly when I say it to him, not like it did when I talked to James about it. He just laughs, completely feeding my insecurities.

  “What brought that on?” he finally says.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just wanted to have a go. It probably won’t come to anything, but I won’t know unless I try. I just never intended to be a receptionist all my life, so I thought I would see if I could write. It’s what I wanted to do when I was at uni,” I try to explain, floundering in my efforts to find the right words. He’s looking at me again as if I have grown horns.

  “I never knew that,” he says, genuinely surprised, and it’s true – he didn’t, because he never asked me; in nearly nineteen years we never talked about it. We spent most of our early days together talking about him and what he wanted, his hopes and dreams and his views on life, the universe and everything, and then I got pregnant and we just talked about the children. My wants and needs by that point had been far too low down on the priority list to ever get around to worrying about.

  “So why now?” he asks. I actually blush as I think about James and hope to God he hasn’t noticed.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble, “with the boys being older I just figured I had a bit more time to do something for myself that wasn’t work. You have your art that you love, and I can’t really say I feel the same way about my job. I don’t expect it will come to anything,” I emphasise again, “I’m just enjoying doing it.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “No!” I say quickly, embarrassed again.

  “What’s the point of a book you won’t let anyone read?”

  “I will let people read it, just not yet. It’s too soon. It’s a crime thriller, so you wouldn’t like it anyway,” I say, knowing full well that he only reads art books and sci-fi. He grunts acceptance, and I distract him with the menu for the Chinese.

  Monday arrives all too soon, and I am resentful of work interfering with my writing. It’s all I seem to want to do at the moment. Reception is busy with all the people who have stored up their complaints over the weekend, so I don’t have much time for anything until late morning. When I do finally look at my phone, there is another text waiting for me.

  R u working today?

  Yes, I reply, wondering why he’s asking. His response is swift:

  I had forgotten just how beautiful your big brown eyes are until I saw you again on Saturday. I can’t wait until Wednesday...

  I’m taken aback; it seems my being at work has given him license to flirt. It still amazes me that someone like him is, in any way, interested in me.

  Not as nice as your blue, I can’t resist replying.

  I must look guilty as hell as I look over my shoulder before sending it. I don’t think I’m very good at this having-an-affair business. God, is that what I’m doing now? Having an affair? I wonder briefly what he might have planned for Wednesday – will he just take me somewhere to have sex? Will it be seedy? Will I feel cheap? I start to feel anxious. Another text buzzes its arrival in my pocket:

  I am completely distracted with thoughts about you. I’m meant to be listening to a presentation, but all I can do is look at my phone, hoping to hear from you. What are you doing to me?

  What am I doing to him? I think, amazed; more like what is he doing to me? I hear coughing and look up to realise a queue has formed in front of reception while I’ve been gazing at my phone. The elderly gentleman in front is tutting at me – I never get tutted at! I feel like a guilty teenager as I put my phone down to check the patients in and find th
em their prescriptions. As soon as it’s quiet again I can’t resist another text:

  You just got me tutted at by a patient. I pride myself on my professionalism at work – what are you doing to me, more like?

  The response this time is even faster,

  I can tell you what I want to do to you... but even thinking about it is making it difficult for me to stand up and leave this meeting room.

  I can’t believe what just thinking about him with an erection does to me. Even worse, it’s visible to others, as one of the doctors comes out and mentions I look a bit flushed, concerned that I’m not well. I blush even more. I am behaving like a hormonal adolescent, for God’s sake! It’s ridiculous how quickly he gets a reaction from me. I send a one-word text because I can’t take feeling like this in a public place.

  Stop! And he does; and then I feel gutted and wish he hadn’t.

  Chapter 20

  As I make my way to the pub on Tuesday evening, I can’t wait to see Emma and Annie. When I get there I am the last to arrive, and there is already quite a crowd at the table. It seems Pete did decide to come and has already introduced himself to Emma, chatting away to her happily – and Stuart has accompanied Annie too. They are by far the noisiest group in our little local, and I see a few of the regulars peering over at the newcomers looking disgruntled. Brian the barman is positively surly when I walk in, clearly blaming me for the intrusion. In truth I imagine he’s upset to see two other men sitting with Annie and Emma, given the evil eyes he’s casting in their direction.

  Pete jumps up when he sees me walk in and rushes over to offer to get me a drink, reassuring me everyone else has only just got one in and so have no need for a refill. I give him a peck on the cheek as a hello as we wait for my drink to arrive. I can feel Emma watching me from the table. Pete makes a big fuss about pulling over a chair for me and putting me next to him, and I know a couple of the locals have clocked him with me, so I’m glad when we are finally all sitting down at the table. Emma is looking even bonnier than when I last saw her, and I tell her so.

  “I feel it,” she laughs, “only eight weeks to go now, and I can’t wait.” I smile at her in the superior way that only someone does who knows about a week after the birth she’ll be wondering why she didn’t make the most of those last eight weeks: when she’s sleep-deprived, leaking from orifices she never expected to leak from and bewildered by the varied demands of a new baby. Knowing Emma and her luck, though, the baby won’t even cry, I reflect.

  Pete is chatting away to her now about the baby and all her plans, while Annie leans over to me and whispers, “And how are you really? Everything okay at home?”

  “Yes, fine,” I say automatically, and then when she just keeps looking at me I add: “Greg’s painting a lot at the moment so I’m hardly seeing him, and I’ve started to write a bit.”

  Emma overhears and is delighted. “Really, Lil, that’s fantastic! You always wanted to be a writer at college – I’m so glad you’re finally doing it. What made you decide to start?”

  I’m touched she remembers my college dream; it’s nice to know someone knew me back then, but I can’t really tell her that James suggested I should. I’m kind of lost for words for a moment, and then I finally fall back on the same reasoning I gave Greg about the boys being off our hands now and me having a bit more time. It’s based on the truth, so I’m not lying, just omitting some of the facts. I’m getting a bit sick of all the lies I seem to be telling – it’s not good karma.

  Annie then changes the subject by asking about Greg’s painting and what he’s doing at the moment, but I have to confess I haven’t been down to his shed to look at it recently, so I don’t really know. It sounds a bit tragic when I say it, like we live separate lives, which I suppose we do, really. The chat eventually gets on to the trip to the Peaks. Emma is shown loads of photos of the various walks and all of us dressed up for the evening. She exclaims again about the photos that Annie took of me dressed up. I blush and she takes it as being because I’m embarrassed by the compliments, when in fact it’s because I remember how the rest of the evening unfolded and exactly where that dress ended up. Pete puts his arm round me and tells me I was the ‘belle of the ball’; it’s really sweet how kind he is to me still despite my rebuff to him, so I lean in to the hug and enjoy it for a moment. It’s only Emma’s eyes turning huge in her face and colour fading as she looks towards the door that has me sitting up and turning in my seat to see what has freaked her out. Greg has just walked in.

  The rest of the group catch Emma’s and my stunned silence and turn to see who we are looking at, while I swallow to try and moisten my suddenly dry mouth. Greg is walking straight towards us, and he looks mega-pissed. I cringe, fearing just how embarrassing the next few moments of my life are likely to be. Pete is still woefully unaware beside me with his arm around my shoulder until Greg marches straight up to him and says: “Who the fuck is this?” He’s talking to me but staring straight at Pete, who still has no idea what the hell is going on.

  His mouth is opening and closing like a goldfish. I hurry to make introductions. “Oh hi, Greg, everyone, this is Greg – my husband, obviously.” I know I’m sounding jumpy, but I just don’t know how to stop it. “Greg, this is Pete, Stuart and Annie. They’re all friends from the walk the other week. We were just showing Emma some photos if you want to see? Can I get you a drink?”

  I speak so fast I’m surprised anyone can understand a word of what I’m saying. Greg’s still looking at Pete, and I know we aren’t out the woods yet. Actually it’s Annie who saves the day. She stands up and puts her hand out to shake Greg’s, forcing him to turn away from Pete to finally look at her. I see the same gobsmacked expression pass over his face as every other man that sees Annie tends to get as he takes in her appearance. It helps that they’re eyeball to eyeball. I take all this in as Annie begins speaking.

  “Hi Greg, it’s nice to finally meet you and put a face to the name. We were just talking about you. Lily was telling us you have been painting lots recently – I’d love to see some of it sometime. I run a gallery in town; my name’s Annie Lord.” Now she really has his attention.

  “Oh really, which one?” he says, finally taking the offered hand.

  “The Lord gallery in Trafalgar Street,” she answers in a way that says, did you not think it might be, after I introduced myself as Annie Lord?

  Greg has the grace to look embarrassed as he slaps his hand against his forehead and smiles, at last breaking the tension. Stuart is already pulling him up a chair as Greg sits down next to the pair of them. I can hear Greg saying something about a recent exhibition Annie had had on that he liked, and the two of them get lost discussing the merits of different local artists. Stuart is just watching Greg all the while, his eyes occasionally flicking back to me. Pete, on the other hand, still looks tense by my side. He swiftly finishes his pint and starts making some apology about having an early start in the morning and needing to leave. I know it’s a lie, but I can’t really blame him for wanting to get away. Everyone makes the usual half-hearted protests as he stands to go, but I can tell there’s relief all round. Greg doesn’t even pretend to smile; he just glowers at him as Pete puts his coat on before then turning and glowering at me. Shit, I think. I’m not out of the woods yet. Annie distracts Greg with another question about his work, so he turns back to her while I glance apologetically up at Pete. He gives me a small smile but it doesn’t meet his eyes, and I can tell he can’t wait to get away from me. I feel tears prick in my eyes as I watch yet another friend walk out of my life, chased away by my beloved husband. It’s been a bit of a recurring theme over the years.

  “You okay?” I hear Emma whisper, trying to keep below Greg’s hearing.

  “Yeah,” I say, but I’m not. I look round the room, wondering which of the local shit stirrers decided to text my husband to let him know his wife was in the local with a couple of blokes. No one meets my eye. I’m fuming now at the ongoing humiliation my life seems t
o be.

  “He saw Pete’s arm around you,” Emma whispers again, “his face was horrible. Are you going to be okay later?”

  I can see she’s worried. So am I if I’m honest. The irony is that I am actually planning to meet another man tomorrow if not have an actual affair, but not with Pete. This can be like a dry run for if he ever finds out about James. God help me, I think.

  “I’ll be fine,” I try to reassure her, but she knows me too well and her worried expression doesn’t lift.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Greg’s voice pierces our conversation; clearly the art discussion has ended. I can tell he knows exactly what we’re talking about – him – but Emma does a brave job of improvising.

  “I scratched my new car; I’ve been worrying about telling Phil. Lil was just suggesting how to break the news.” She tries to laugh it off, but it sounds hollow.

  Greg looks at me, and it says, you’ll tell me later. I actually feel afraid for a moment.

  “So where are these photos, then?” Greg demands, and suddenly everyone is reaching for their phones to show him. I hate the idea of him looking at them. I desperately cast my mind back to think if I saw any with blokes’ arms round me. I don’t think I did, but I can’t be sure, and even if they were completely harmlessly meant, I know he’ll make a big deal about it. I can see the muscle twitching in his jaw, which is a sure sign of irritation, as he scrolls through. I know exactly the moment he sees the picture of me in the evening dress because he freezes and looks up at me.

  His eyes look dark as he stares at me, “Nice dress. I haven’t seen you in that before, have I?” I swallow, catching Annie looking aghast realising what she’s done by showing him the photo.

  “It was mine,” she says smoothly, “but it was a bit short for me. I always take a few dresses with me, and none of Lily’s clothes were dressy enough for the night, so I insisted she borrow one of mine and that she let me do her hair and makeup on the night. She looked stunning, don’t you think?”