Grace

 

We had sandwiches for lunch and an afternoon in the lounge, the doors open onto the patio and cartoons blaring for the girls. It was nice. Peaceful. A good chance to breathe and remember life as it was when we didn’t have this pile of crud festering around our every move.

Brett was more at ease than I’d seen him in months, chattering away with his nieces while I made small talk with Sarah. No matter what the topic was, I knew her brain was churning with my bombshell of a revelation. I’d catch her looking at Brett during every pause in the conversation and wonder just what she was thinking after my crazy beach confession.

She let me know after a fish and chip supper on the terrace, once the girls were finally tucked up in bed and our bar was empty enough of guests that Brett made some considerate excuses about paperwork, leaving us alone at the counter to enjoy a bottle of house white.

“I still can’t imagine it,” she said with a grin. “Brett watching you have sex with another man, I mean. He’s always been so competitive. I can’t believe he didn’t rugby tackle the guy and throw him out through the window.”

She had a point, and it reinforced just how much the financial pressures of this place had deviated us both away from our usual selves.

“I think it was a challenge to his self-restraint,” I assured her as I took a decent swig from my glass.

“No shit. I can’t even fathom it. Was holding onto this place really worth it? For him, I mean, as well as you.”

I met her eyes as she voiced her question, flinching at the implication — the guilt from a long-past decision momentarily overriding my more recent blunders.

“He wanted this place too. He loves it here as much as I do.”

I wish I believed the statement as strongly as I conveyed it, but it was tinged with enough defensiveness that she picked up on it in a heartbeat.

“I’m sure he does love it here,” she said, without even a hint of backtracking. “But you know as well as I do that this place was your call when push came to shove.”

I shrugged. “We were both tired of the same old corporate crap every day of the week.”

“I guess,” she relented. “It just always surprised me that he was so quick to up and leave the rat race. He loves that competitive stuff, always has. I can’t imagine him walking away without a whole raft of reservations.”

“What can I say? We’re both full of surprises.”

She tipped her head and flashed a smile. “You are today.”

We’d had this conversation several times over already, going over the same ground with the same taken aback look on her face every time.

I found my foot was tapping against my stool leg, the same old nerves flaring up at the thought I’d pushed him along with me during one of his weaker moments in life. Since today was a day for open confessions I opted to push the chat to new uncharted regions — ones I’d avoided like the plague through the earlier reruns.

“It was his dad,” I voiced aloud. “I think he was still reeling from his death. I don’t know if he’d have ever made the leap if he’d still been alive, even if we’d had the finances.”

“His stepdad?” she clarified, and I hated how she always did that, like that differentiation meant shit. Brett’s dad had been his dad since he was five years old, no less committed to his upbringing than our dad was to ours, even if he did have his asshole ways running through the whole fatherly process.

“His dad,” I argued. “The blood thing means nothing. His dad was his dad.”

“His dad was a dick,” she said, and I cast a glance at the bottle of wine between us. She’d had two glasses already, clearly more than enough to dull her sensitivities. “Don’t tell me you think he’s a saint just because he’s gone. That’s not your style.”

“His dad left him enough money in his will to set us up in a whole new life. Dick or not, we’ve got a lot to thank him for.” I downed the rest of my drink and poured the dregs of the bottle into my glass in an effort to catch her up. “He won’t hear a word of it anyway, so keep your blurting mouth shut if he comes back in here.”

She held up her hands. “As if I’d say anything.”

She wouldn’t, I was being a paranoid bitch, like so much of the time these days. I took a breath and forced a smile since the last thing I needed right now was to push my only welcoming ear away to arm’s length.

“It wasn’t just me,” I argued with a kinder tone to my voice. “Brett wanted the move too, no matter how it looks from the outside. His dad was…” I tried to find the words without compounding her earlier insult. “Forceful. Demanding. I think Brett realised the pressure was finally off without him breathing down his neck. God rest his soul, but George was always keen to voice his opinion.”

“Judging,” she said. “That’s what you mean. Judging.”

I did mean that, but it didn’t feel right to say it that way. “He paved the way for a whole new life, like I said. The deposit for this place was intense.”

She nodded, eyes focusing on mine as though a lightbulb had just gone on in her head. “That’s it,” she announced. “The reason he was so keen to take the cash from the London guy.”

I pulled a blank, tipping my head to encourage her to continue.

“The investment,” she said as though my brain was mush today. “Just think about it. He spent his whole life living up to his dad’s judgy standards, you don’t think he’d want to let the old guy’s money go down the pan with your venture, do you? He’d probably sell his own body if it meant his dad’s precious investment was safe.”

“That’s not it,” I said, but no sooner had the words left my mouth than I knew she had a point. I was shaking my head as I carried on all the same. “He did it to save our future here, not safeguard his inheritance. We could be cast out on the street and we’d still be together, holding tight. It’s not about the money.”

“Not about the money, no,” she persisted. “About the shame of fucking up with his dad’s money. Of being a loser. Of not winning. He’d rather cut his own dick off than lose a game on the sports field, and you know it. Hell knows what he’d rather do with stakes so high.” Her smile was definitely on the drunk side. “Sell your pussy, it seems.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I argued. “We made the decision together, both of us.”

I was scrabbling for further coherent thoughts when she raised a finger in the air. I knew then that her speculations were getting serious.

“How many trophies did his dad push him to win back in high school?”

I shrugged. “A few, but Brett was always into the sports stuff. He was competitive, like you said.”

“How many summer jobs did he juggle to impress his dad with his savings?”

Another shrug and I had to really think about it to remember. “A few. He liked being responsible.”

“Liked living up to his dad’s standards more like it.”

I let out a sigh. “So what if he did? What difference does it make?”

Her smile was a beauty of shrewdness, reminding me afresh why we were both murder mystery addicts.

“It’s all tied up in one crazy web of ramifications. All of this. You, this place, the struggles you’re under to find your groove again after spending the night with a random guy.”

“It is?” I asked, trying to piece together the same puzzle as her. “You sound like Agatha Christie on acid.”

Her nod was one of the most self-assured expressions I’d ever seen. “It’s confidence,” she said. “He’s losing his winner takes all and that winner is Brett Foster mentality. The change doesn’t suit him, you should probably help him pick up his competition game.”

“Neither of us are feeling like winners over here,” I told her. “We were barely unpacked in this place when the rumour mill brought the bargain basement hotel crap to our door.”

“And he’s probably never known facing a scrum he couldn’t win. When has he ever lost at anything? Name me one time?”

She was quiet as I struggled to find an instance. There wasn’t one I could recall easily, not outside of these past twelve months.

“Okay, Sherlock,” I said with a smirk. “Tell me what I do to fix this crap. A volleyball league on the beach this summer? A breakfast chef fry off with all the hotel chefs on the Welsh coast?”

“You make him face this shit head on,” she said. “If he thinks this other man was better in bed, make him prove that’s bullshit.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Make him prove that’s bullshit? How exactly? Our own explorations in the bedroom aren’t exactly a pinup of success.”

Her grin was definitely the result of too much wine. “I dunno, maybe call the guy back up again. Round two, no holds barred.”

I laughed out loud and pushed her wine glass away from her. She grabbed it back with a roll of her eyes. “I’m not drunk,” she said. “Not really.”

But she was drunk, clearly a lot less familiar with a sweet glug of alcohol on a weekday evening.

“You’re crazy,” I giggled, even as my belly flipped.

“Oh, come on!” she giggled along with me. “You say the guy made you come five million times in a row, don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to get him back here if Brett could handle it.”

I hated how perceptive she was, barely willing to admit to myself I rubbed my clit every opportunity I could as I imagined a rerun.

“There’s no shame in it,” she added. “You’re bound to be hot for him now, even if you’re still in love with your husband. It’s natural.”

It didn’t feel natural.

“There’s no way I’d get Thomas Heath back here,” I told her. “Even if the idea wasn’t insane, there’s no way Brett would go for it. They hate each other. Fuck knows why the guy has a shitty thing going for Brett, but there’s no way they’d ever double up and come out friends at the end of it.”

“They wouldn’t need to,” she said. “Just as long as Brett came out on top.”

I laughed afresh, shaking my head at the absurdity. “You’re crazy,” I announced again, like she didn’t know it already.

“With all due respect,” she told me with a grin. “I’m not the one who fucked a random stranger for fifty grand when I’m happily married.”

“Touché,” I said, and clinked my glass to hers.