To: Dylan Mitchell

From: Gabe Foster

 

I remember her words later on when things begin to change between us.

I didn’t notice at first, but looking back, I can see that from the time we came back from Devon, he started to change. At first the distance I felt between us I put down to actual distance, as he’d been asked to go to Bath to help our sister office with a case that had proved difficult. For the first couple of weekends, he came back and rang me every night, cajoling me into epic rounds of phone sex.

But now as the case drags on, the calls have started to come further apart, and he offers feeble excuses for not travelling back at the weekends, saying that he’s too busy. However, he never asks me to go to him, and I draw what I know is the correct assumption – he’s getting ready to dump me. That moment in bed when he’d clung to me and looked into my eyes, he’d seen things that I didn’t want him to see. He’d needed me, and it had set the clock ticking on our relationship.

I recognise it for what it is, because who hasn’t had this happen to them? However, the time it had happened to me before, I’d never really cared. This time I do, because I’ve never been so in love with one person, never felt that my happiness is so tied up in one surly, bad-tempered idiot. It hurts to know that fate has given me the perfect person for me to love, but has failed to make it reciprocal.

Still, it’s hard for me to believe this is happening, despite all my mental preparations. However, the first time I ring his hotel room and hear the voice of another man in the background, then I know it’s for real, and I have to begin the process of distancing myself for my own wellbeing, because God, this fucking hurts.

I lower my phone slowly to my lap and stare into space. I don’t know how long I space out for, but when I look up Jude is standing in front of me with a worried look on his face. “What happened?” he demands.

I sigh and attempt a smile. “There was someone with him.”

“What?” he explodes. “No, surely not. I know he’s a twat, but I’ve seen him with you.” He shudders. “Jesus, I’ve heard it with my own ears.”

I try to smile, but to my shame, I feel my lip tremble and seeing it, he comes down next to me. “No, Dylan, don’t babe. Please don’t cry over him.”

I firm my lips and take a shuddering breath. “I won’t,” I say hoarsely. “But God, Jude, this hurts so much.”

“He’s a fucking bastard,” Jude hisses, and I shake my head.

“It’s not his fault. He was always so honest that this was just sex, and that we’d do it until we didn’t want to anymore. I guess he’s just reached that point ahead of me. This is my fault. I’m so naïve, Jude, because I just hoped that he’d see me and realise that we’re actually pretty perfect together. It’s not his fault that I’m not the one for him.”

“A blow-up doll is obviously the one for him,” he says poisonously. “I’m sorry, Dylan, but I think the man’s a fucking wanker. Anyone with eyes could look at you and know that you do not have just sex written over you.”

“Or perhaps I’m being stupid,” I mutter, and he tightens his hold on me.

“Listen to me - you are not stupid. Someday someone is going to come along and take one look at you and see exactly what a fucking prize he’s getting, and they will fucking settle down with you so quickly that your head will whirl. And you know what?” I look at him. “I’m going to enjoy watching Gabe’s face when it happens, because that man has deep feelings for you, Dylan. He just seems so emotionally stunted that he’ll never do anything about it.” He strokes my hair affectionately. “You’re worth more than this arrangement. Please think about that.”

I do think about it. I think about it as January waltzes out in blustery winds and ice-cold showers, and Gabe stops calling. The first week of February comes and goes, and one day I walk into the office and stop dead.

Gabe turns to me. “Good morning,” he says almost nervously, his eyes running feverishly over me. He looks gorgeous in a gunmetal-blue suit with a brilliant white shirt, and turquoise, spotted tie, but he seems to crackle with nervous energy, like a fallen power line.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, proud to hear how cool my voice is, and covering my agitation by hanging up my coat and dumping my bag at my desk. Decorum I tell myself, and remember Jude’s words of a few weeks ago.

I walk over to the kitchenette to start coffee, aware with every fibre of my being that he’s shadowing my footsteps. I stop dead in the doorway and stare in disbelief. “You started the coffee?” I say faintly.

He rubs his hand down his face in embarrassment. “I thought we’d cut out the middleman, and just proceed to the drinkable coffee,” he says as if trying to coax a laugh out of me over our old coffee joke, but for the life of me I can’t summon a smile, and his face falls.

For a second I want to take back my coldness because even now I can’t bear to see him sad, but then I remind myself of the weeks of silence and the man’s voice in his room, and when I speak my voice is like ice, and he winces. “Did the case finish okay?”

“Yes, we won, which is a miracle. I mean I knew we’d win, but the others didn’t, and it was such a shit storm.” He’s almost babbling, but I make myself nod and get my tablet from my bag.

“That’s good,” I say in a distracted voice while pulling up his diary. “Well, as you’re back I’ll make appointments for Mr Simpkins and Mr Bridges. They’ve been asking, but I hadn’t heard from you, so I didn’t know when to slot them in.”

To my horror I hear my voice waver, and so does he. “Dylan,” he says hoarsely, reaching out to lay a hand on my arm, and then staring as I back up so sharply I bang my elbow on the desk.

“No,” I say sharply. “That’s fine. It’s as it should be. Now I’ll pour you a coffee, and we can go over the arrangements for the week.” I move away busying myself with papers and pens, as he hovers at the door watching me intently as if I’m some sort of mystery to him.

He wrings his hands together, the ultimate sign of nervousness in him. “Dylan please, I have to talk to you. I’m sorry. I -”

“Well, hello, Gabe,” comes the booming voice of Michael, one of the senior partners, from the door, and I jerk my attention to him immediately. Gabe is slower, but he turns his look from me to him as Michael carries on talking. “Good job on the Stoughton case. I’ve had exceptionally good reports, so well done. Lunch today?”

“I don’t know about lunch,” I hear him say, shooting me a look from the corner of his eye, but I look up immediately from my blind perusal of his diary.

“Yes, you’re free, Mr Foster,” I say coolly.

“But -” he starts, and Michael interrupts.

“Excellent. Now come with me, because James wants a blow-by-blow account of your month.” He stops to laugh coarsely. “Not too much detail though, man. I saw the young man you were hanging around with when I came down there, and I don’t think James’s heart will stand a retell of everything, or everyone you got up to.”

My hands tighten into claws on my tablet, and I hear the intake of my breath as if from a distance.

In the background, I can hear Gabe telling Michael in a hoarse voice that he’ll follow him in a minute, but I’ve already edged past them and am moving down the corridor to the men’s bathroom. Once inside, I pace tightly in the small space for a second, wringing my hands at the intense pain. I knew he’d had someone, but to have it confirmed makes my stomach and chest hurt so badly.

I bend over breathing heavily, and then run the water until it’s freezing and splash my face until I gasp. I’m drying my hands and face with a paper towel when the door bursts open behind me and crashes into the wall.

“Dylan,” he gasps. “Please.”

“No,” I say sharply. “You know, Mr Foster, I think I feel ill. I’m going home now if that’s okay with you?”

“No, please,” he says. “I have to tell you -”

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” I interrupt coldly, and some part of me is impressed by how detached I sound. “We’re nothing to each other. Why would you explain fucking another man to someone who’s just a hook up anyway? You never promised me anything after all.”

He flinches, and puts a hand out as if to touch me. “Yes, but I know that you feel something. I know it’s hurting you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I shout, losing my temper like a snapped elastic band, grabbing his hand and pushing it away from me. “You don’t fucking get to do this, you patronising wanker. You’ve spent all these weeks reinforcing how detached you are from me. Never calling or texting unless you want phone sex. Fuck telling me anything about your day. As long as we both come, that’s all that matters to you. Even when you were here and we had sex, afterwards it was like fucking clockwork. I must tell poor Dylan not to expect too much from me. I must let him know he’s just another convenient hole. Poor, poor, naïve Dylan. Well, I got the fucking message when I heard that other man in your room that night.” He makes a beseeching gesture, but I push my face into his. “Fuck this, Gabe. Fuck you.”

Ignoring his whispered plea, I shoot out of the bathroom, glad that there’s a breakfast meeting on this floor so no one is around to see my hurried exit from the building. He doesn’t follow me.

***

The frenzied knocking comes at my door earlier than I expect, and I sigh because I know I have to speak to him. For a second I wish Jude was here, but I don’t need a third party getting involved. It’s messy enough already.

I walk over and removing the chain, I crack open the door but have to stand back quickly as he comes in like a whirlwind. “Please let me talk,” he says hoarsely. “I just need to tell you that I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Who was he?”

“A paralegal at the company. He was assigned to help me.”

I try for a smile, but it must look more like a grimace. “Is that a euphemism? Another office romance, eh? You’re really racking them up at the moment, Gabe.” A tremor runs across his face, and I immediately hold up my hand. “Sorry, wrong word choice. I know you’re practically allergic to the word romance. Let me try again, another office fuck friend.”

“I need you to know that I didn’t fuck him,” he says with a dogged determination that confuses and hurts me at the same time. I want to believe him so much, but the force of that need frightens me.

I shake my head, suddenly so tired of feeling like this. “You don’t need to do this, Gabe. It doesn’t matter.”

“It fucking does,” he shouts suddenly, looking almost astonished at his volume. “It does matter,” he finishes more quietly. “I’m not going to lie to you. I can’t lie to you. I didn’t do anything.”

“But you could have,” I say tersely, and he shrugs, looking uncomfortable.

“I could have, but I chose not to.”

“Why?” I ask baldly.

He looks puzzled. “Because I’m with you.” My heart rises so fast from my boots that I almost get whiplash, but then, unfortunately, he carries on. “I mean it wouldn’t be fair. When I do it, I’ll tell you first. I won’t keep secrets.”

I feel vomit rise and burn my throat. So simple, like he’s doing poor, simple Dylan a favour and explaining the rules. Like it’s inevitable that he will fuck someone else.

“Why do you look sad?” he asks, coming closer. “I hate that. Please don’t be sad, Dylan. I’m sorry I didn’t ring you, but it was so busy and I don’t know -”

He trails off, and almost reluctantly I say, “What?”

He shrugs almost awkwardly. “I missed you, Dylan, and every time I rang you and heard your voice it got worse, so in the end, it was simpler not to ring.”

I hate myself that I feel a sad joy at that admission, because to me it means something else. It means that he didn’t care enough to make sure that he wasn’t hurting me when he cut himself off. He had felt something, and he’d immediately acted to shut it down.

But still those hopes batter against their cage. He was feeling something for me, more than he’d wanted. Surely that’s a good sign? Maybe if I just hang in, he’ll realise what all this means. And underpinning all of this is the usual dark hunger for him, which weakens my resolve with the desire to feel him against me. I know the chances are high that we’re ending. Would it be so wrong just to have one last memory of him?

He senses my wavering of course, and moves closer, drawing me into his arms, and my heart notices the deep sigh that he gives at feeling me against him. “Baby,” he says deeply. “Please forgive me. Tell me it’s okay.”

I shake my head and instead pull his lips to mine, wanting to divert him because he knows we’re ending too. This is just the death knell.

The same bright passion springs up between us and he growls, dragging me to my room and throwing me on the bed, but for the first time ever between us, it’s just sex. My mind has distanced itself from him, and he knows it. I sense that in the tightness of his grip and the desperate way he fucks me as if trying to make me remember. The problem is that I can’t forget.

***

The next week passes slowly, and I drift through it like some sort of robot, programed to follow his urges and needs, but at a distance, as if I lack the heart anymore to feel. At first, he appears almost desperate to get that back, but then he seems to grow angrier. However, for some unknown reason, I still try to make it work.

I honestly can’t say where my head is at this point. The only joy I get is from the sex and the knowledge that he isn’t with anyone else, but I know that doesn’t mean he’s really ever with me. Over that week we drift into different roles, switching as our moods dictate. I’m alternatively conciliatory and distant, and he’s either angry or uneasy.

Then Valentine’s Day happens, and I drop my guard without even knowing. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been tender this morning. Lying in bed with us wrapped together, it seems like he’s making love to me as he stares into my eyes and slowly thrusts inside me, pulling back every time we get close, until we’re dripping with sweat and when I come it’s like the sweetest pain. He lies there afterwards hugging me to him, and it just happens. I let him back in, and when I smile at him fully for a second, he looks like it hurts him.

“You seem happy,” he says hoarsely.

“Well, it is Valentine’s Day,” I say lightly, and sigh when I see his face tighten. Of course he wouldn’t celebrate the festival of love. “And it’s Saturday.” I squeeze his arse to move so that I can go and clean up. He’d stopped doing that after Devon, as if it was too intimate. A pain hits my heart, and I can see him watching me intently.

“We should do something,” he says swiftly, and I sigh and shake my head.

“Don’t be silly. There’s no need to do that for me. That’s not we’re about.”

He looks angry for a second, and then folds his arms stubbornly, his olive skin glowing against my mint-green sheets. “Come on, let’s do something different.” He looks up. “Let’s go out for a meal.”

“Gabe, Valentine’s Day is for lovers, for people who love each other, not fuck buddies.” A flinch runs through him, and I stare at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says stiffly. “I want to do this.” He pauses. “I know it’s been different lately, that you’re hurting.”

I shake my head. “It is as you said it would be, Gabe. I was being a naïve idiot, holding out for some wonderful relationship where we love each other.”

“And you’re wiser now?” he asks hoarsely, holding himself tightly, almost as if he’s hurt.

I make myself shrug carelessly. “We both know where this thing between us is going.”

“Good,” he says harshly. “Saves us having a long conversation about it then.” He flings the covers back and dresses quickly, shoving his legs into his jeans as if he can’t wait to get out of here. As he gets to the door, he throws back over his shoulder. “Be ready at eight. I’ll pick you up.”

But he doesn’t come. At eight o’clock I look up from my position at the window, where I’m poised like a sad twat waiting to see him. Nine o’clock comes and goes, and I watch couples hand in hand going into the Italian restaurant opposite my flat, which is decorated with pink balloons and hearts. By ten o’clock I know that he isn’t coming, and I give a shuddering sigh, trying to keep the tears at bay. Anger freezes them away, a hard, burning anger that I’m here yet again at his mercy.

I move over to the kitchen to find the duty-free whisky that Jude brought back, moving stiffly after sitting in the chair for so long. I pour myself a drink and look down at my outfit of a black suit with skinny trousers and a white shirt. I shrug and ditch the jacket and loosen my black tie, before taking a hefty slug of the whisky and making myself cough.

Four large glasses later and I feel no pain, as I sit in the darkened flat listening to Alison Moyet sing about heartbreak and loss.

The knock at the door makes me gasp and spill my drink. “Shit,” I slur, licking whisky from my fingers. The knocking comes again. “I’m coming,” I holler, and then stand stock still as I open my door and find Gabe standing there with another man.

“What the fuck?” I say slowly.

“Sweetheart,” he exclaims loudly, coming close and trying to kiss me. I shove him away, wrinkling my nose at the smell of alcohol that’s coming off him in waves. I notice his outfit of jeans, Converse and a blue and white raglan t-shirt, and feel anger stir. He never, really meant to go out.

“What’s the matter?” he slurs. He turns to the other man. “I’m sorry. How rude of me. This is Ollie. Ollie, this is the missus.”

“Fuck off,” I jerk out. “You’re drunk.”

“I am,” he says delightedly. “I am drunk because aren’t we celebrating the festival of love, my dearest. Better known as the day you kick me to the curb because I can’t be what you want.”

“I thought we were going out for a meal?” I stare at the other man’s hand on Gabe’s arm, drifting languorously up and down like seaweed.

“Oh, so did I, but then I had a much better idea.” Gabe says hoarsely, his eyes glittering.

“Did you find it at the bottom of a bottle?” I reply slowly, and he laughs delightedly.

“So pert, my darling. Isn’t he adorable?” he says, turning swiftly to Ollie, who looks me up and down smoothly before smiling and nodding. Gabe turns back to me, swaying slightly at the sudden movement. “We’re going out dancing tonight.” I shake my head, and his eyes drift down my body. “Since you’ve gone to so much effort for me, I thought we’d celebrate, and I can give you my gift.”

“What gift?” I ask slowly, unable to keep up with this jittery mess.

Gabe laughs harshly and turns to Ollie. “Ah, the missuses. Every single one of them has always liked the presents.”

Ollie laughs and my temper snaps. “Fuck off,” I say angrily. “You’re a fucking twat, Gabe.”

I step back, but he shoves his foot in the door to stop me shutting it. “But you haven’t unwrapped your present yet.”

“You haven’t got me a -” I stop, a horrifying idea forming in my head, and Gabe grins, standing back with a sneer fixed firmly on his face. He makes jazz hands and flourishes them around Ollie.

“Here he is, my dearest. Here’s your present. Isn’t he pretty?”

He twists the man’s face to his, and to my horror he bends to kiss him. He sends his tongue languorously over Ollie’s, before reeling back, barely stopping himself from backing into the wall. “He’s delicious, darling. Only the best for you.”

I stare at him feeling anger course through me, obliterating everything like napalm and leaving only the strongest desire to hurt this man who is hurting me so much. “This is what you want,” I say coldly. “A threesome to finish it?”

For a second I think that I see a wild pain flare in his eyes, but I must be mistaken because the next minute he’s leering at me. “That’s why we’re so perfect, Dylan. You always give me what I want.”

“I’m doing that now,” I say, ice cold and referencing more than he is, because I’m finishing us. It’s what he obviously wants. I throw open the door. “But why waste money on a club, Gabe? There’s a bed in here, and you’re lucky, I haven’t even changed the sheets yet.”

I reach out and grab Ollie’s hand and drag him into the flat, staring at Gabe the whole time. “Let’s do it,” I snap, and for a second, apprehension flares in his eyes, but I ignore him as I tug Ollie onwards.

“This is a bit of a dump,” he sneers, looking around with a disgusted expression on his face.

“Well don’t worry, sweetheart, you won’t be here long,” I return, stripping off my shirt and tie, and pushing him towards the open door of my bedroom.

“Wow,” he whistles, reaching over to drag his fingers down my chest. “You didn’t tell me how fucking gorgeous he was. You’re a lucky bastard, Gabe.”

Gabe hovers behind us, watching as Ollie touches me, running his fingers down my six-pack and dipping down to trace the v of my pelvic muscles. “Lucky?” he asks hoarsely.

“Yes, darling,” I drawl, taking Ollie’s shirt and jerking it apart in one swift move so that buttons fly everywhere. Ignoring his deep moan, I draw him to me so that our chests touch and I can see Gabe’s face over Ollie’s shoulder. “Gabe is the lucky one. He manages to go through life with a smile. No pesky emotions and feelings for Gabe. He doesn’t have them,” I whisper loudly into Ollie’s ear, making him shudder and moan.

“Is this what you want?” I ask Gabe coldly, as he falls back against the wall, looking clumsy and tortured. “Are you watching me play with my present?”

He swallows hard as I reach down and graze my hand over Ollie’s hard dick, never breaking our eye contact. He breaks in the end, looking away with a groan that doesn’t sound pleasured. Instead, he sounds almost pained, like he’s hurting inside, and it drains my anger suddenly and completely.

“Wait,” I say, and then gasp as Ollie surges up and takes my mouth with a throaty groan, but with my anger gone this is wrong, so wrong. His hands feel hot on my body, and I have a second to wonder when I’d got so cold. I lift my hands to push him away, but his warm body is suddenly gone. It isn’t until I open my eyes and see him on the floor with Gabe standing over him, that I realise Gabe has pulled him off me.

“Enough,” Gabe shouts. “Don’t you fucking touch him, Ollie.”

Ollie looks up at him from his position on the floor. “You’re so fucking weird at the moment, Gabe. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, but this has not exactly been my idea of a fun session. I’m going.” He huffs and stands up, leaving the room quickly. The front door slamming sounds like a klaxon in the stone-cold silence of my bedroom.

“Dylan,” Gabe says hoarsely. Then there’s a click as he switches the lamp on. I flinch at the brightness, and put my hand up to shield my face, before shivering.

“You’re cold,” he whispers, and he reaches down and grabs the comforter from the bottom of the bed and wraps it around me, no sign of drunkenness about him now.

I pull it closer, needing the comfort. Idly I wonder if that’s how it got its name, but I sigh instead of asking Gabe, who knows acres of trivia. “Some Valentine’s Day,” I say sadly, as the corrosive anger vanishes, leaving behind only a bone-deep coldness and sadness.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so fucking sorry, Dylan. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It doesn’t matter.” My voice is hollow, and he flinches, but I want to end this with the truth now because that might make me feel cleaner about what happened tonight. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say softly, and he jerks, visible tremors running through him.

“No, don’t say it.” His voice is hoarse, and when I look up, his eyes are full of tears.

“Oh, Gabe,” I say sadly, reaching up to touch his face. “I have to, sweetheart.” He closes his eyes at my touch, leaning into it the way that a plant does to the sun. I take a deep breath. “I love you,” I say clearly, and his eyes fly open and I swallow hard at the look of blind panic there.

“No,” he says frantically. “Oh, don’t do that, Dylan. Don’t love me.”

My heart breaks because here we finally are at the end, and there is no going back from him rejecting my love. “But I do, and you knew that, Gabe. That’s what tonight was about after all wasn’t it? You wanted to let me know my place beyond all doubt.”

For a second I think I see confusion cross his face, but it’s quickly replaced by agitation. “Push it away,” he says urgently. “We can still be together. We’ll just have to try harder, and pick a better partner next time.”

I push his hand away, stung out of my calm. “That’s how you treat my telling you that I love you. You tell me to try harder to sleep with someone else.” I shake my head. “A long time ago, I’d have dreamed of you telling me you loved me too and begging me to try, but I know better now.” I take a deep breath. “I know that I can’t do this with you anymore, Gabe. I’m worth more than being a fuck toy for someone who hasn’t got the balls to try for more.”

He flinches back as if I’ve struck him, but I can’t regret my words because they’re true.

Anger fills his face. “So that’s what your love comes down to,” he says furiously, standing up and pacing away from me. “It’s a trap, Dylan. You love me, but only if I do what you want. Well, fuck you. I will never be, or do, what you want.”

“But if I’d done as you wanted tonight, I’d be fucking another man,” I say gently and watch as he actually gags at the thought. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I love you, which means I can’t be with someone whose reaction to knowing that his partner cares for him, is to bring another man into their bed as a Valentine present. I’m worth more. I want to matter, and not be treated as if I’m an old dildo that gets tossed in the drawer when the battery goes. I want to be there for someone. I want to grow old with someone. I want to die knowing that I loved with all my heart, and to the best of my ability.”

“And I’m not fucking worthy of that?” he spits, anger riding him with flushed cheeks and shaking hands. “Well fuck you, Dylan. Fuck you and your stupid, provincial ideals of a cottage in the country and matching dogs. You go out and get your fucking country squire. I’ll be out enjoying myself, and I can promise you one thing.” He leans closer. “I won’t think of you again.”

Then he’s gone, with the slam of the door the only sound to echo the fact that my heart is broken.

I lay back on the bed, wrapping myself in the duvet until all I can smell is his and my scents mingled together, and I weep because he’s never coming back, and although it was the right thing to do I’ve broken my own heart in the execution of it.