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“So he left without mentioning it again?” Beth asks down the phone. She sounds as confused as I am.
“Yeah, he mended the tap and put Max to bed then left, wet clothes and all.” I frown. “And then he called me last night and was all flirty again.”
I try not to remember how sexy he sounded. The dirty words, the small laughs. The way my body clenched at his voice.
“Sounds like he's doing something right.” Beth laughs.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he's trying to win you back it sounds as though he's succeeding.”
I can't deny the fact he's making me fall in love with him all over again. When I got to work this morning, the café down the street delivered a huge mug of coffee and a box full of pastries, a small white card inside.
Thanks for the wet T-shirt competition. You looked beautiful.
He’s a sweet, dirty boy. Just like the first time, he's seducing me with a mixture of sexiness and cheekiness. Filthy words said with a taunting smile. He knows how to hit every one of my buttons, likes to squeeze them until I submit.
“I can't remember why I was so angry with him,” I confess. A car slams on its horn as a bike pulls out from a side road and I wince at the sound.
“Ah, the soundtrack of the city,” Beth sighs. “Sometimes I miss it.”
“So what should I do about Alex?” I reach the entrance to the tube station, lingering by the stairwell, not wanting to say goodbye.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don't know,” I wail. If she'd have asked me yesterday, when I was staring at Alex as he leaned over the sink, his jeans clinging to his muscled thighs, I'd have told her I wanted him back. But now, out in the cool London air, I'm more reticent. Afraid.
“You're scared.” Beth knows me too well. “That's normal.”
“What if we try again and it goes wrong?” I ask. “I don't know if I could take it.”
She's silent for a moment. I take a deep breath, watching as a gust of wind scatters a pile of abandoned leaflets across the pavement. They lift and dance in the breeze, before slowly drifting back down to the concrete, ready to be stamped on by a crowd of commuters.
“I know it's easy to say, but love is always a risk. When it's good it's amazing, and when it's bad...” She trails off. I wonder if she's thinking about her own relationships. Her own heartbreak. “I guess you have to decide if Alex is worth the gamble. If you could actually live without him.”
I squeeze my eyes shut at her words. It's impossible to imagine a life without Alex in it. He's been my rock for too long. And yes, the past few months have been hard as hell, but neither of us have been angels.
We're human. We make mistakes. Isn't that what life is all about? Tripping over, dragging ourselves back up. Learning to step over the cracks in the pavement.
* * *
Unlike some of the court-mandated counselling I offer, attending group therapy at the clinic is entirely voluntary. So it’s no surprise a few days later when I walk in and see half the chairs empty. People drift in and out depending on what’s going on in their lives, and in those of the ones they love.
It’s only when everybody’s sitting down I realise Laurence isn’t here. I look at his empty chair for a moment, my brows knitting into a frown. I was so sure he’d make it after our talk last week.
Jackie walks in a few minutes late, blustering through the door like a whirlwind. She’s the one mainstay of the group, never misses a session, though timekeeping isn’t her strong point.
“Sorry I’m late.” She sounds breathless. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing yet. We were about to get started.” I’ve learned to wait until she arrives. “Has anybody heard from Laurence?”
The room quietens for a moment and Jackie shuffles nervously. Then she pulls a folded up newspaper out of her oversized bag, unrolling it and passing it to me. “Haven’t you seen this?”
I cast my eye across the newsprint. It’s a local paper, printed cheaply, and the ink has smudged where Jackie has been reading it. But there’s no hiding the photograph of Laurence, or the headline beneath it that cuts me to the core.
Local Headmaster’s Son Dies in Prison Fight.
My hand tightens around the newspaper as I read the details. About the stab wounds that caused Tom to bleed to death. The cut across his jugular, the panicked race to hospital. Squeezing my eyes shut, I remember Laurence’s pained expression as we discussed his problems on Sunday. The way his hand shook as he held his coffee cup. The tears in his eyes as he talked about his wife.
