“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Niall, I shouldn’t have done that.” Tears spring to my eyes. Self-disgust replaces the neediness of before, and I hastily grab my coat and bag.
“Wait.” He tries to take my arm, but I pull away. One touch and I’ll be done for. His presence overrides any self-control I can muster. “I’ll drive you home.”
“It’s okay, I’ll get a cab. You’ve been drinking anyway.” I point at his glass. It’s mostly full, forgotten in the heat of desire. “Thank you for the drink, and, um, feel free to finish the food.”
I practically sprint out of his door, taking the steps fast, even though I know he could catch up with me easily if he wanted to. He doesn’t, but still I run, as if I can leave it all behind—the shame, the embarrassment, my poor sense of judgement. But the thing I want to escape from the most is still with me.
You can’t outrun yourself.
14
I spend Sunday morning moving all my things to the spare room, thinking a clean break will be kinder, easier. A stopgap until I can find somewhere affordable. In the afternoon, I move it all back again, re-hanging clothes and re-stuffing drawers. Somehow, I manage to waste an entire day prevaricating, and by the time I replace the final item in my wardrobe the sun is low in the sky, turning the streets pink as it sets.
My indecisiveness has managed to distract me from my phone, which lies on my bedside table in angry silence. Plus, I tell myself, I’ve had the equivalent of a two-hour gym workout, carrying all that stuff back and forth. I could do with a cardio workout.
The evening drags on. I cook an omelette, pour a glass of wine and stare blankly at Antiques Roadshow, trying to stop myself from thinking. Later, I take a bath and have another glass of wine. Before I know it, half the bottle is gone.
Yet I still feel sick. Apprehensive.
It’s a day late, but I definitely have sorrows to drown. What the hell was I thinking? I’ve gone from being a mixed-up woman in therapy to an adulterer. That’s how I see it, regardless of whether or not we had sex. We kissed and we touched and I wanted more.
At ten o’clock I climb into bed, pulling the covers over my head, blocking out the thoughts and disappointment with myself. All it does is give me a blank canvass for the memories. I think about the way Niall’s lips felt against mine, the hard ridge in his jeans as he pushed against me.
Kiss me on the lips, Beth, please.
I can almost hear him saying those words. The desperation laced in his voice is reflected deep inside me. These past few months keep repeating in my mind. Simon’s coldness, my anxiety. The way Niall’s been there to hold me up.
Please don’t break his heart all over again.
Is my marriage with Simon even worth saving? It’s as if the passion I felt last night has woken something in me. Something I thought I could live without.
Now I’m not sure I can.
I wake up to warm arms wrapped around my body and a face nuzzled into the back of my neck. For one fleeting moment I think it’s Niall. Then I reach behind me and feel soft, silky hair, thinner than his, cut closer to the neck. I recoil, wondering why I’m reacting so violently to my husband’s embrace.
Because it isn’t him, a little voice inside my head tells me.
“Did I wake you?” Simon’s voice is soft. “I’m sorry, baby.” Whisky wafts from his breath.
“What time is it?” I’m disoriented, not only from waking up, but because of the way he’s holding me. We’ve barely spoken for weeks, let alone touched. It feels wrong.
“Just gone midnight.” He’s still nuzzling. His lips slide across my neck when he speaks. “I got back about an hour ago, the traffic was fairly light.” Another kiss, this time pressed to my spine. “I missed you.”
It’s hard not to shudder. Should I pretend to go back to sleep; would that be believable? I wasn’t ready for this sudden onslaught of affection. I was expecting the usual coldness, hoping for it even. I could have coped with that.
His hand moves up, under my vest, in a grotesque parody of Niall’s caresses. Biting my lip, I try not to cry out. When he reaches my breasts I feel myself shake, yet still I say nothing. Perhaps this is penance,
a way of paying back for all my transgressions.
Simon must feel my spine stiffen, because he presses his face into my hair, muttering softly, “I’m sorry for being such a bastard. I know it hasn’t been easy these past few months, but I’m going to try harder. We can see that counsellor you were talking about.” He kneads my breasts with his hands. “God, I’ve missed this. Missed you.”
“We can’t see the counsellor. She won’t take us as a couple.”
His right hand slides down, brushing my stomach, pressing between my thighs. I turn my head into my pillow, trying to hide my disgust. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? For him to talk to me again, for us to work at our marriage. I should be turning over and throwing myself into his arms, peppering kisses over his face the way I did last night with Niall.
Niall. It’s wrong to even think of him as my husband pushes his hand beneath the waistband of my shorts. He trails a finger along my thigh and it’s all I can do not to clamp them together.
“Are you okay?”