Chapter Eighteen

 

 

I’M WALKING AROUND THE HOUSE early one Saturday morning… when it hits me. It’s been almost two months since he died. It doesn’t feel real. Time’s ticking has been so unreliable since he left – he could have died yesterday or last year for all I know. My heart and my soul are still buried beneath this quagmire of grief which seems to me to be existing for existence’s sake.

Anyway, back to the present. It’s early and the garden outside is trapped beneath dense fog. It’s going to be warmer later, but it’s been a cool early-spring night.

I’m still not sleeping well. It’s better than it was, but it’s not great.

I often wander the house like this in the dead of night, buried in my pyjamas, my oversized robe, a woolly hat and slipper boots – perhaps so I won’t get cold, or maybe so that I don’t feel exposed. It’s been important since he died to button up and bury myself. It’s a comfort, anyway.

“Liza,” he whispers, sneaking up on me. I turn and catch sight of Sam, squinting in the dark. “What are you doing wandering around at this hour?”

I shrug and continue staring at the blanketed world outside. He walks up behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder, his strong arms wrapped across my midriff.

“Beautiful, insomniac angel,” he whispers. “Come back to bed. Let me just hold you.”

I let him take me. He carries me there as if I’m a tiny silk pillow stretched out across his arms. He pulls me tight against his chest in bed, my hat and slippers removed, but not the rest.

It’s been like this for weeks now. He comes and stays over on Friday and Saturday nights. We do nothing but hold one another in bed. I remain buttoned up. He holds me and understands, while I try my best to ignore the desire vibrating beneath his skin – a desire I am as yet unable to reciprocate.

Joe’s transfer has been temporarily postponed. Of course, it was never in the press or anything. It was all hush-hush. Hetty and he have moved back into their tiny little house for the time being. Some mornings I manage to get out of bed and take Emily to school – but often I text Hetty and she comes in the car and dresses my daughter, then ferries her there to that place where people know who I am and what has happened to me.

When I first found out they weren’t moving after all, a part of me wanted to accuse Hetty of hindering Joe’s career, just because she’s not ready to leave me yet – but the moment that rebellion rose up in me, it was quickly replaced by the fear that I might have to start relying on my mum instead, if indeed Hetty does leave the city. I don’t have the energy to wheedle the truth out of her. Whether she’s put the dampers on his transfer or not (because of me), I have no right to question her, and no strength to fight her, not anymore.

“I’m sorry I’m still struggling,” I whisper, suddenly remembering who I’m with.

“Don’t be.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know. Hush, take comfort.”

Sometimes, I want him to shout at me – tell me to snap out of this. He never does. He arrives after the kids are in bed because it’s too soon for their father to be replaced. It’s difficult.

Sometimes, Sam leaves in the early hours when I’m finally asleep and I’ll wake to find a note on my pillow, reminding me he loves me and will see me soon.

“I can’t promise I’m ever going to get better.”

“I don’t need promises. I just need to be next to you.”

He says all these wonderful things, but a part of me still doesn’t believe them. I hate myself. I don’t know why I’m even still here. I don’t deserve to live.

“You know, for so many years I told myself you were just Sam, my flirty friend who had all the girls wrapped around his little finger. I told myself it was just your way… to be gregarious with everyone. I had myself convinced you might have a bunch of girls at your beck and call, one for each day of the week.”

“Hmm, you did, did you?”

“Yes.”

He buries his nose in my throat and breathes in the scent of my skin, inhaling me. “How right you were, kitten.”

“Kitten?” I scoff. “Why do you always call me that?”

“Because I could put you in my pocket if I wanted to.”

“Oh, you are mean,” I snicker.

“Well, it’s true.”

“Yes.” He could put me anywhere he wanted to, and I would never complain. Ever.

“Have I ever told you about how Jules and Warrick met?”

“No… why? Is it something I should know about? I don’t know them well at all…”

I begin to tell him about the ritual of Jules’ – how she would wait on street corners. How Warrick picked her up, shook her down and changed her world. How things didn’t quite go according to plan – but they got there in the end, eventually. I tell him about how Hetty and I fit into it all – how a number of what Jules thought were erroneous events actually brought the stars into alignment. 

I explain how the rest of us have only ever been able to admire Jules and Warrick from afar, unable to achieve that same magical quality of a union which injected new life into them as individuals, but also into an entire community.

Eventually, Sam cottons on and says, “So, you mean to say, they were fated, or something? To do all they’ve done together; to achieve all they have. You’re saying you believe in fate.”

“I want to, don’t you?”

“I do. I want to. I’m not sure I believe in the beyond or anything… I can’t say I’m into all that, you know. However, fate sounds nice… it sounds romantic.”

I find myself worrying he’s missed the point, but maybe he just needs me to elaborate.

“Sam, what if soulmates who get together aren’t just meant to live happily ever after… what if their union is actually meant to effect change in the world? What if they’re meant to partner in life, not just love? You know?”

He sighs, as though disappointed. “I’ve always thought that anyone who finds love at all must be lucky… but to have all that as well, it’s rare, surely? I can’t speak from much experience. My parents were pretty crappy role models and I’ve never had a serious relationship. I’ve always been bobbing along. That’s who I am.”

I lift up and stare down into his eyes. “I guess what I mean, is that, don’t you want something that’s more than sex or love? Don’t you want something that changes the world?”

He’s staring up at me with that endearing look in his eye. “I think Jules and Warrick sound like two magical people, and I think they’ve kept you and Hetty under their wings because they recognise something familiar in both of you. The truth is though Liz, I’m just me, Sam. I’m just here. I’m just bobbing along. That’s what I do. I’m never going to claim to be something I’m not, but at the same time, I would never stop you from exploring your potential and running with it, even if that means you end up working in some sphere that’s totally different to mine.”

I snuggle back into his chest, feeling frustrated. I’m not sure he understands.

“I mean… what I meant was that… well, my marriage to Gage was a bitter disappointment. I’ve been trying to rationalise his death, for it to mean something. I feel like – and I know this is going to sound crazy – but I feel as though it has to mean something, for me, and for the sake of my sanity. I have to make something out of it. I have to go on and achieve stuff…”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“…but I feel like I allowed myself to be buried beneath my marriage and motherhood. That I hid behind it for some reason, and I don’t know why.”

“I see.” He holds me tighter, sounding a little worried.

“I feel like I romanticised it all… the whole childhood sweethearts thing. We built it on a flimsy foundation of fantasy, but then as time moved on, it just became more evident it lacked substance. It became more evident it wasn’t real.”

Sam takes my hair in his hand and clutches me in his arms. “God, Liza. If you were to ask me what feels most real in this moment, I would have to say it’s my desire for you. The way you talk, the way you smile… I would just about do anything to see you smile. I have loved you for such a long time, do you know that?”

“I don’t…” I try to bury myself tighter in his embrace.

“There’s no point in talking ill of the dead, or about what could have been, or about how to make his death meaningful instead of pathetic, which is his fault entirely… because he drank too much and didn’t put you first. He had a lousy gag reflex after a dozen pints and six shots and that’s all there is to it. I’m sorry, Liz. That’s the truth of it. You’re here ruminating over all this, trying to make sense of it, but you can’t. And let me tell you why.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“Because you’re a woman of deep, deep yearning. A woman of passion. Of love. Of great understanding and empathy. You want to put a romantic spin on all this? Do it… if it helps. But from my point of view, and many people will agree, he was a stupid idiot. He was one-dimensional. He didn’t see what was right in front of his eyes. You’ve projected your great capacity for feeling onto him, even though from what I’ve heard over the past couple of years’ worth of emails, he possessed the emotional range of a teaspoon, if you don’t mind me quoting Hermione Granger. He was never going to make you happy, not really. You’re the one who made him look great. Without you, he probably would have got in debt, gambling and visiting Vegas all too often. He might have graduated from drink to drugs much quicker. You just don’t know. All you need to realise is that your emotional range is mega, but his wasn’t. He didn’t understand you; never could; never would have. You’re here, still lingering on this, weeks after. I understand that, I do. It was shocking and brutal and truly, truly ugly. But the artist behind this stunt wasn’t skilful and certainly didn’t have integrity. He just acted carelessly and paid for it with his life. Anyone can die, any second,” he assures me, with the click of his fingers, “but nothing comes from nothing. You’re not nothing. You have a lot to give. You don’t need me to hold you up. You don’t need me to promise you anything. The person you really need promises from is yourself. Yes, I can promise you that I won’t allow you to be sucked into another vortex again, one where you’re doing all the giving and your partner is doing all the taking. That will never happen if you’re with me, because I won’t allow it to. However, you have to promise yourself that you’ll try to believe in you, that you’ll reach for more from life, not for your parents’ sake or your kids’ or mine, but for yourself. You. Then you’ll start to value yourself and what you’re capable of.”

A tiny electric spark runs across my heart and I start to hope… I start to feel again. He sounds so impassioned and desperate. He’s not afraid of treading on eggshells anymore and that’s just what I need.

I lever myself and look down into his eyes, stroking his cheek. “Sam, you say the most beautiful things.”

“I learnt from you, kitten. All from you.”

“I’m just afraid.”

“It’s okay, I’m afraid too.”

I wipe away a tear. “You don’t seem afraid. You seem strong and full of life and unbroken, not like me.”

In his eyes, I see demons unleashed, plus a determination to face fire and wrath. “No, Liza. I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of losing my job and not being able to pay my bills. I’m afraid I’m not good enough. Sometimes I have to pinch myself in the job I’m doing. I’m a perfectionist, I can’t relax for a minute. I’m afraid that makes me appear a pedant in front of my colleagues, when I’m actually just unable to show vulnerability…

“Then there’s you and me. I was afraid for so long that if I did make a move on you, you’d be disgusted and never want to see me again. I was afraid that if we did get together, it wouldn’t be as hot as I’d always imagined it to be. I was afraid we’d lose our friendship over it; that I’d never see you again. I’m afraid if I contact my sister, she will turn me away and deny me. I’m afraid she’ll tell me things about Mum and Dad I don’t want to hear. I’m afraid of going to sleep and never waking up. I’m afraid of my house getting burgled. I’m afraid if I get a houseplant, I’ll kill it, let alone a dog or a cat. I’m afraid of all kinds of things, but what I am most afraid of is dying and leaving you behind before I ever see your potential fulfilled. I’m afraid of leaving you alone, with nobody to champion you like only I can. I’m afraid of hurting you and causing you pain. I’m afraid of getting you pregnant and something bad happening. I’m mostly afraid of the things I’m capable of, because I’ve been no saint. I’m afraid because I want to be good for you. I’m afraid because I never want to let you down. I’m the one who’s afraid of never measuring up. I’m scared too, Liza. It scares me, too.”

I stroke my hand along his jaw and lean in to kiss him. He seems shocked at first and unsure, but when I pull away smiling, relief washes over his face and he pulls me on top of him, encouraging my kisses.

My body becomes uncomfortably hot. His mouth tastes like urgent need and sweet desire. I nip at his lip and lick into his mouth to provoke him, his hands wandering down my back, his breathing heavy.

I’m madly… wildly… desperately… in love with him.

He flips us over and covers my body with his. I undo the belt on my robe and pull it from underneath me, throwing it to the floor. He lifts his t-shirt over his head and my hands can’t get enough of his skin and the warmth of his body.

He rips open the buttons on my pyjama top and exposes my breasts to the cool air, making me squeal. He covers my breasts in kisses and while he’s enjoying himself, I free him from his boxer shorts and stroke him up and down, relishing the scent of him.

Reaching across, I pull open the bedside drawer, grab a foil and stick it in his hand.

He becomes naked very quickly and pulls on the rubber. I throw my clothes off and hold out my arms to him. He comes into my embrace and holds me close to him, his lips brushing over mine.

“You look so beautiful. I’m not going to last.”

“Just fuck me, you ruffian.”  

There’s a greedy look in his eye as he aligns himself and begins a slow plunge deep into my body. I arch off the bed and groan as he fills me so replete, I can’t even open my eyes.

He bites my shoulder and bares his teeth against my throat, groaning as my body wraps tightly around his, clutching him firmly. Licking into my mouth, he stares down at me, looking so pleased with himself.

“I’m sorry the foliage hasn’t been trimmed.”

“I’m not. It’s you au naturel. It’s sexy.” He kisses the breath from my lungs and begins rocking into my body, making me smile against his shoulder, occasionally rendering me shocked as he pulls out, then rams back into me the whole way once again.

“You need to be fucked, Liza? My love.”

“I do.”

“I wanted to fuck you the moment we met. I thought about you jumping my lap, owning me. I wanted to taste the slickness between your legs and fuck you hard and fast, pushing you up against the wall of the seminar room.”

“Oh, Jesus. Sam…”

He pins me down and presses his forehead to mine, sharing breath and gasps and dirty words with me as he wrecks the girders of my bed.

I scream when I come, clinging to him, as he’s clinging to me. I bury my face in his throat as he lies on top of me, recovering, our two bodies a sweaty, tired mess.

He rolls off me, disposes of the condom and quickly drags the covers over our bodies. We lie facing one another, my hands pressed against his chest, our legs a big tangle.

“In my fantasy, I left him for you and we lived happily ever after.” It sounds tragic when I say it out loud. “The problem is, would I have ever done that?”

“Yes,” he says, “you would.”

“How do you know that?”

He holds my chin between his finger and thumb before kissing me. Then he smiles and pulls me close, holding me as we begin to drift back to sleep.

“I was never going to give up,” he says, kissing my hair, “not after finally tasting you. You wouldn’t have given up on me either.”

“I agree on that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Liza, shut your eyes and sleep, my darling. I’ve got you. I love you. You make me so happy.”

“You make me happy, too.”

“Let’s imagine we’re in Paris, asleep in that fancy hotel room you once shared with Hetty. Remember? You emailed and told me all about it. Well, you’re back there, except you’re with me this time. We’ve got the curtains open because it’s a summer night. You’re feeling so unwound and free. You’ve been entirely naked the whole trip. Well, for the portion of it we’ve spent in the room!” I giggle into his armpit. “We hear all the car alarms go off on the street below when a truck gets stuck on the narrow strait… and we laugh… and then you forget you’re still naked as you wander to the window to see what all the fuss is about. People see you in all your glory and strangers wolf whistle, so you quickly climb back into bed with me, feeling embarrassed and also exhilarated. We get a fit of the giggles and your face is a picture of shame and shock. You roll back into my arms, tight and secure, and we’re just one again… it’s so easy… we’re just one… so tight, knitted together, and we don’t even think of it again. We’re just us, able to get over anything, because we’re perfect together.”

I pull his face into my chest and we lock together again, because it’s as he said, we’re just perfect – together.