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He's an enigma. A mixture of hard and soft, of bitter and sweet. My Dr Jekyll with a dirty Hyde mouth.
He grabs me by the hips, fingers digging into my skin, holding on, steadying me. Then he pounds me hard and fast until I see rainbows exploding behind my eyes once again, the vivid colours forming pictures in the shape of his tattoos. When the mist clears, and we are sweaty and breathless and all but collapsed on the sink, he whispers low in my ear, dirty and sweet. “I fucking love you. And I love fucking you.”
If I had any breath left in my body, I'd say it right back.
6
Since I had Max my sense of self seems distorted, as if I'm looking at my reflection in the hall of mirrors and not recognising what I see. There was a time when I knew myself inside out; years of personality tests and self-analysis meant I was more than aware of my strengths and weaknesses. Confident, strong, occasionally reckless. Sensitive even though I tried to hide it.
But now the softness is leaching out, turning the rest of me to mush, like a cardboard box left out in the rain. I cry at sad stories in the news, at birth tales shared at massage class. At the thought of David never being able to see his daughter.
That makes me cry a lot.
He sits and watches me, at the fat tears rolling down my cheeks. Though he says nothing, his eyes are soft, and I find myself laughing at the fact it's me crying when it should be him.
“I'm so sorry, David, that's horrible, I can't believe she won't let you see her. Isn't there something you can do?” I can't ever imagine stopping a father from seeing his child. Even if I hated Alex, Max would always be his son.
“I started legal action, but Claire threatened to leave the country. If she did that I'd never see Mathilda again. It's fucking killing me, but there's nothing else I could do.”
“So you came here? Was that the right decision? What if she changes her mind and you're half a world away?”
“I can get back within twenty-four hours. I'm hoping my being away will give her the chance to cool off.” He looks out of the window, his eyes shadowed, brow lined. “Anyway, it was killing me being so close and not seeing her.”
I can understand that.
David's quiet for a minute and his introspection allows me to take in my surroundings. Converted from the ground floor of what was once a Victorian, terraced house, his flat differs from ours. The bay window that has limited use in our upstairs bedroom is glorious here, streaming in light, the curve accentuated by a window seat that follows the edge of the glass. There are photos of Mathilda everywhere; as a new-born cradled in his muscled, tanned arms, as an almost-toddler with golden curls that cling to her head like a cap. You can tell she’s his from the shape of her eyes, the way her smile makes her nose crinkle.
She’s beautiful in the way only a baby can be. Skin flawless, face innocent, untouched by the world. I wonder if she misses him, if she stares at the door waiting for her daddy to swing her around. I hope one day she will realise none of this is his fault.
“So, your husband popped over last night.” David changes the subject and I can't say I blame him. I go along with it, even though I've heard the story from Alex.
“He did? How did it go?”
David smiles, his teeth white and perfect. “He's all right. He said he was a dick and that he was sorry. I said it was okay and we opened a tinny.”
“That'll explain why he was half-cut when he got home.”
“Half-cut?”
“Drunk, pissed. Swimming in beer,” I explain. David starts to smirk. “How much did you give him anyway?”
“Enough.” He mimes pulling a zip along his mouth. I've known enough of Alex's friends to understand this is guy code. If a wife asks, you don't tell.
“Well, I'm glad you both cleared the air. And he was a dick the other night. I told him so. He's not the same when he comes off the stage, it's like he's so pumped up there's nothing left but aggression.” I blush when I remember exactly how he got rid of it. By bending me over a sink with my knickers around my ankles. “He's a nice guy in real life.”
“He has to be, you married him after all.” David stands up, grabbing my empty mug from the table. “Another coffee?” I glance over at the buggy in the corner of the room. Max is sound asleep, sucking at his fingers, his face screwed up as if dreaming is stealing all his concentration. There's a patch of red on each of his arms where he scratches furiously at night.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don't want to disturb you.” I'd only popped in to ask him if he was free next weekend. Fear of Flying are playing at a small festival in Oxfordshire. Though Alex and the band will be there all weekend, a few of us are traveling down on Saturday to watch their set. I'm nervous about taking Max to a festival—in a field in the middle of nowhere—but I figure there's safety in numbers. Maybe we can form some kind of human shield around him.
“I was getting bored with work anyway. I figure the least I can do is pay you for the ticket in caffeine.” He flashes his northern-territory grin again. “I like the sound of Alex's sister.”
“Amy?” My eyes widen. “Isn't she a bit young for you?” I don't mean that. What I really mean is don't go there. Amy has been on-again, off-again with the same guy since they were school kids. Their relationship is more unstable than nitro-glycerine. If David gets too close it's likely to burn him.
“The librarian?” he clarifies and my eyes widen. He's talking about Andrea, Alex's other sister. Calm, reliable Andrea—the one member of the family who eschews volatility. She's the opposite of what I imagine David would like. She likes books, cooking, quiet nights in. Alex jokes she's been middle-aged since she was a teenager.
“Yeah, that one. I'm imagining her in dark glasses and a messy bun. Skirt stopping right below her arse.”
I squint my eyes, trying to see her objectively. She's always been Alex's sister to me, fluttering around, looking after everybody, panicking when the roast takes too long to cook.
