What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story) (13 page)

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 angry 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.

“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.      

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 them 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.