Broken Chords

by Carrie Elks

“I haven’t told her about the mediation yet. I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”

  “But you’re going to tell her, right?”

  David starts walking again, pushing Max’s buggy in front of him. I follow behind awkwardly, my mind full of questions that don’t want to be voiced.

  “I’m going to tell her.” He’s back to the monotone. “I just haven’t worked out how.”

  “You should talk to her soon,” I say. “Keeping secrets isn’t going to help your relationship.”

  “You should know I’m rolling my eyes now,” David replies. And though all I can see is his back, I know he’s telling the truth. “I’m not going to take relationship advice from you.”

  “How rude.”

  He cough-laughs. “Have I upset you?”

  “Nope. I’m practically uninsultable. It’s like water off a duck’s back.”

  “I think you made up a word.”

  “Duck?”

  “Uninsultable.”

  “Oh, it’s a word,” I insist. “Look it up in the dictionary.”

  “Yeah, of course, I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure it’s right next to gullible.”

  Just like that we’re laughing again. Trading minor insults and the occasional mock-punch. As we walk back to our flats, the afternoon sun casting a pale, fuzzy glow on the concrete pavements, I realise how much I’m going to miss this. Miss him. David only moved in a couple of months ago yet we’ve become firm friends. He’s been there when I needed him.

  So I reach out my hand and squeeze his shoulder, knowing I’ll try to be there for him, too.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon is spent with my head buried in paper, staring at bank accounts and bills, trying to make them all add up. When I try to pay the electricity, the balance is showing as zero, and I scroll through the payments to work out what's going on. I'm usually pretty good with money—things are so tight I have to be—and this unexpected credit is worrying me, making me think I've done something wrong. When I call up the helpline, it all becomes clearer.

  “The balance was paid two days ago, Mrs Cartwright.” The operator sounds too damn chipper for a Sunday afternoon. I wonder what they put in the drinking water.

  “But I haven't paid it since last month,” I reply patiently, even though it's the third time I've told her this. “There must be some kind of mistake. Can you see if it's the right account?”

  “It is, Mrs Cartwright. The balance is fully paid up. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  I sigh. It sounds stupid, but I hate surprises like this, because I know in a few days’ time I'm going to get an angry letter telling me I still owe £250 and there was some kind of mistake when I called up last time. I'm never this lucky.

  “Can you tell me who paid the bill?” I ask, fully prepared for her to tell me she can't release that sort of information. Instead, she shocks me with a jaunty 'no problem' and I hear her tap away on her computer.

  “The balance was cleared by a Mr Alexander Cartwright.”

  My throat tightens. “Alex?”

  “That's correct.”

  There's a fluttering in my stomach. I say goodbye, not really hearing the reply. Then I go through every bill I have on the table, calling the helplines to double check the balance, and each one of them has been paid off. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry, because I've always been the one who sorts out the finances. There's something about him doing this, without being asked—without expecting thanks—that makes me feel a little giddy and high. The two hours I have to wait until he brings Max home pass unbearably slowly, long seconds stretching into interminable minutes, until I'm fidgety and anxious. I want to see him, to touch him, to let him know I'm thankful.

  Damn it, I want him here.

  Alex arrives, knocking on the door with a brief rap of knuckles, tapping out a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. I push myself up from the sofa, leaving behind a Lara-shaped dip, and walk to the door with my pulse rushing through my ears.

  “Hi.” I'm breathless when I open the door, and a little bit wary. I don't trust myself not to crumble in front of him. As soon as I see him, I know I'm pretty much dust.

  He's had his hair cut; razor sharp at the edges, longer and messy on top. His black T-shirt clings to his chest, ink scrolling up from the neckline as if it's trying to escape. Alex gives me a melted-chocolate look, his lips curled up, eyes crinkled at the edges.

  I dig my fingernails into my hands.

  “Mam mam mam,” Max immediately breaks the tension. When I look at him in his buggy he gives me a just-like-daddy grin, kicking his bare feet out with delight.

  I attempt to compose myself.

  “No socks?” I ask. My smile matches Alex’s. I lick my dry lips and he follows me with his eyes.

  “He kept throwing them on the pavement. Eventually I gave up trying.” Alex pulls a ball of fluff from his pocket. Grey socks rolled into each other. “He's clearly a hippy.”

  “Barefoot and happy.” I reach down and tickle one of Max's tiny feet. He squeals and curls it up, kicking out at me. Then he starts to wriggle, trying to escape the straps that are fastened around his little body, keeping him safely in his pushchair.

  “How was your day?” I lift Max out and up into my arms. Surreptitiously I glance at Alex from the sides of my eyes. It feels silly, but I can't help it. There's just something about him.

  “We had a good time. There was a barbecue at the park, Max managed to flirt with nearly every woman there.”

  “He's a dirty dog.” When I look up, Alex is still looking at me. I meet him stare for stare. “Just like his daddy.”

  Alex smirks. “You like me that way.”

  My reply is light, full of air. “I do.”

  There's a delicious feeling in my stomach, and it uncurls like a contented cat. My heart beats a little faster than normal. I can't remember the last time we flirted—something as natural to us both as taking in oxygen—but God, it feels good.

  “And how was your day?” Alex folds up the buggy and stashes it by the door. “Did you manage to entertain yourself?”

  “I went for a walk with David.” I look for the flash behind his eyes. When they narrow, satisfaction warms me from head to toe.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I put Max in his bouncy chair and walk over to the kitchen. I've deliberately chosen a tight-fitting pair of jeans, taking advantage of the fact that stress has brought me back to my pre-baby shape. Alex has always been an arse-man, and I can feel the heat of his gaze as he watches me. I feel in control, sexual, and the power invigorates me. It lasts for about five seconds, right up until I go to fill up the kettle with some water.

  I manage to pull the tap clean off from the spout.

  Water gushes upward in a geyser Yosemite would be proud of, drenching my hair, my face, and my clothes. I jump backwards, screaming, trying to reach out and block up the gaping hole, and only managing to cover the whole kitchen with spray.

  When I turn around Alex is doubled over with silent laughter, clutching at his stomach as he looks at me. His grin is so wide it's splitting his face.

  I think about helping it along.

  “Fuck, bugger, fuck!” I jump about, reaching for a tea towel to cover up the spray. It's next to useless, becoming soaked in moments, and my resulting curse does nothing to dampen Alex's humour.

  “Language, the baby's listening.”

  I whip round and mouth “fuck off,” in response, and he starts to laugh even harder.

  “Fat lot of good you are,” I shout at him. “Aren't you supposed to be the handyman around here?”

  “You want my help?” He's a walking smirk. Sexy and hot, yet completely frustrating. He takes a step towards me, his feet squeaking on the wet tiles, and I flick the now-sodden tea towel at him.

  “Hey!” He grabs my wrist when I try to whip him with it. “Lay off with the violence.”

  I'm soaked from head to toe. Water gushes out, pouring over the surfa
ces and the floor, sloshing around my feet. Yet I'm grinning at him, joining in his laughter, feeling my heart flutter when I catch his eye.

  He looks good—too good. His hair is perfectly messy, his clothes bone dry. So I grab his arms and pull him towards me, twisting him until his body is firmly in the firing line.

  Then we’re both soaked, our clothes clinging to our skin. Giggling and laughing, we wrestle with each other, trying to push each other beneath the spray.

  His arms circle my waist, pulling me to him. My T-shirt sticks to his, and the laughter that was bubbling in my throat only a moment before turns into air, sticking and catching before it dies away completely.

  “Fuck, you're beautiful.” He wipes a wet lock of hair from my forehead. My chest tightens as I stare at him, his hair inky black with water, droplets pouring down his face.

  “So are you.”

  He presses his lips to mine, hot and needy. I feel their movement in my stomach, between my thighs, and I'm kissing him back, breathless and demanding, closing my eyes when I feel his hands pushing underneath. His palms slide against my wet skin, warm and firm, and I loop my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

  We kiss, hard and fast, as if there's no other way. As if we have no choice. I can feel him hard against my thighs, right where I ache for him. The sensation shoots pleasure to the tips of my toes.

  “Lara,” he breathes against my lips. I answer him with a moan, low and long. Then he's kissing me harder than ever, his tongue sliding against mine, and I'm nothing but a mess of desire.

  “Baby, I need to sort out the tap.” He pulls back, his lips still touching mine. “As much as I want to keep kissing you.”

  When he moves away, my body throbs with disappointment. I step back, leaning against the counter, trying to catch my breath. I’m still silent as he grabs his tool box from the cupboard and turns off the water at the mains.

  When Max calls out, I'm almost relieved. I leave Alex in the kitchen, messing about with a wrench, and walk out, dripping onto the carpet. Max stares up with wide eyes, as if he's trying to work out why the heck I'm so wet.

  While I'm trying to work out what the hell just happened.

  25

  “So he left without mentioning it again?” Beth asks down the phone. She sounds as confused as I am.

  “Yeah, he mended the tap and put Max to bed then left, wet clothes and all.” I frown. “And then he called me last night and was all flirty again.”

  I try not to remember how sexy he sounded. The dirty words, the small laughs. The way my body clenched at his voice.

  “Sounds like he's doing something right.” Beth laughs.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if he's trying to win you back it sounds as though he's succeeding.”

  I can't deny the fact he's making me fall in love with him all over again. When I got to work this morning, the café down the street delivered a huge mug of coffee and a box full of pastries, a small white card inside.

  Thanks for the wet T-shirt competition. You looked beautiful.

  He’s a sweet, dirty boy. Just like the first time, he's seducing me with a mixture of sexiness and cheekiness. Filthy words said with a taunting smile. He knows how to hit every one of my buttons, likes to squeeze them until I submit.

  “I can't remember why I was so angry with him,” I confess. A car slams on its horn as a bike pulls out from a side road and I wince at the sound.

  “Ah, the soundtrack of the city,” Beth sighs. “Sometimes I miss it.”

  “So what should I do about Alex?” I reach the entrance to the tube station, lingering by the stairwell, not wanting to say goodbye.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don't know,” I wail. If she'd have asked me yesterday, when I was staring at Alex as he leaned over the sink, his jeans clinging to his muscled thighs, I'd have told her I wanted him back. But now, out in the cool London air, I'm more reticent. Afraid.

  “You're scared.” Beth knows me too well. “That's normal.”

  “What if we try again and it goes wrong?” I ask. “I don't know if I could take it.”

  She's silent for a moment. I take a deep breath, watching as a gust of wind scatters a pile of abandoned leaflets across the pavement. They lift and dance in the breeze, before slowly drifting back down to the concrete, ready to be stamped on by a crowd of commuters.

  “I know it's easy to say, but love is always a risk. When it's good it's amazing, and when it's bad...” She trails off. I wonder if she's thinking about her own relationships. Her own heartbreak. “I guess you have to decide if Alex is worth the gamble. If you could actually live without him.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut at her words. It's impossible to imagine a life without Alex in it. He's been my rock for too long. And yes, the past few months have been hard as hell, but neither of us have been angels.

  We're human. We make mistakes. Isn't that what life is all about? Tripping over, dragging ourselves back up. Learning to step over the cracks in the pavement.

  * * *

  Unlike some of the court-mandated counselling I offer, attending group therapy at the clinic is entirely voluntary. So it’s no surprise a few days later when I walk in and see half the chairs empty. People drift in and out depending on what’s going on in their lives, and in those of the ones they love.

  It’s only when everybody’s sitting down I realise Laurence isn’t here. I look at his empty chair for a moment, my brows knitting into a frown. I was so sure he’d make it after our talk last week.

  Jackie walks in a few minutes late, blustering through the door like a whirlwind. She’s the one mainstay of the group, never misses a session, though timekeeping isn’t her strong point.

  “Sorry I’m late.” She sounds breathless. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing yet. We were about to get started.” I’ve learned to wait until she arrives. “Has anybody heard from Laurence?”

  The room quietens for a moment and Jackie shuffles nervously. Then she pulls a folded up newspaper out of her oversized bag, unrolling it and passing it to me. “Haven’t you seen this?”

  I cast my eye across the newsprint. It’s a local paper, printed cheaply, and the ink has smudged where Jackie has been reading it. But there’s no hiding the photograph of Laurence, or the headline beneath it that cuts me to the core.

  Local Headmaster’s Son Dies in Prison Fight.

  My hand tightens around the newspaper as I read the details. About the stab wounds that caused Tom to bleed to death. The cut across his jugular, the panicked race to hospital. Squeezing my eyes shut, I remember Laurence’s pained expression as we discussed his problems on Sunday. The way his hand shook as he held his coffee cup. The tears in his eyes as he talked about his wife.

  “I didn’t know.” I hand the paper back to Jackie. When she takes it, she squeezes my hand, and for a moment, I feel as though she’s the counsellor, not me.

  “I only found out yesterday,” she says. “I tried to call him but there’s no answer. Understandable, I suppose.”

  The rest of the group is looking at us with interest. When I turn to explain to them what’s happened, they go silent, their eyes wide. Staring.

  For them, it isn’t only the shock that turns them mute, it’s the knowledge that this tragedy could have been theirs. They all have addicted children and they’re all treading the line between compassion and anger, and sometimes veering off wildly. The rest of the session is muted, with quiet voices and considered conversation. Minds that are far away, thinking about our own children, wondering if that could be us.

  When we finish, we’re all a little stunned. As I leave the clinic, making my way to the nursery, I decide I’m going to hold Max a little closer tonight.

  * * *

  Alex calls me later when we're both in bed. For long moments we say nothing, simply listening to each other breathe. I lay on cotton-soft pillows, my pyjamas tangled around my legs, and find myself dreaming of ink-etched skin.
We talk about nothing, our voices drifting, my eyes fluttering. My body tingles with the need to have him close.

  “I miss you.” There a soft cadence to his voice. “I miss feeling you, touching you. I want to wrap myself around you, have your skin next to mine. Run my fingers down your stomach.”

  Closing my eyes, I can almost sense him next to me. His breath warm on my neck, strong fingers digging into my hips. He used to wake me up with soft kisses and hard licks, making me gasp with a waking breath.

  “Do you remember that time in Rhyl?” he asks. “When we took a blanket down to the beach.”

  “I remember.” He peeled off my clothes, inch by inch, lips and fingers stirring me until I couldn't stop shaking. “That's where we made Max.”

  “That first time I felt him move, I thought I was going to cry. In the middle of a field, surrounded by our mates, and I was a blubbering fucking mess.”

  We'd been at a festival, lying on blankets, listening to bands. I grabbed his palm and pressed it to my stomach, watching his face shine with amazement as the baby fluttered against his palm.

  “That night...” I close my eyes, my breathing ragged. He couldn't stop touching me, even as I slept. Woke me up twice to make love, his movements gentle, and his breath slow. It was uncharacteristically tender, as if he was holding himself back. But it felt right. So right.

  “You were beautiful. Soft pink skin, perfect little bump. And your tits, God your tits. Fucking sublime.”

  My nipples tighten at his words.

  “I used to daydream about them. Imagine them pressed against me. Your soft skin against my hard on.”

  The bed feels too big, too empty. I reach out to the spot where Alex used to lay, feeling the coolness of the sheets. “I wish you were here.”

  “So do I, baby.” His voice is pure seduction. “I want to feel your body against mine, your sweet little arse pressing into me. Want to touch you until you're chanting my name.”

  I run my palms down my stomach. “Alex...”

  “Say it again.”

  A breath, a plea. “Alex.”