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“But you got married,” I prompt. “So things must have been okay?”
“As I said, I was oblivious. Too busy at work, too busy trying to get my next promotion. I didn’t realise how unhappy Jane was, nor how she was trying to deal with her depression. We were both too ambitious to accept we could be anything less than perfect.”
I close my eyes, picturing that wedding photograph. The beautiful couple, their beaming smiles. It’s hard to believe that it wasn’t genuine. How often do we hide our emotions behind a fake smile?
“Two years ago, things came to a head again,” he continues. “I was running late for work and barged into the bathroom to clean my teeth. She was leaning over the sink, snorting a line of coke. I went fucking ballistic, told her it was over, that I couldn’t take it any more. I said some things I regret, shouting I’d never have kids with her, that she’d be a shitty mother. By the time I left for work we were both boiling over.” His voice cracks. Regret seems to seep from his every pore.
I relax my hold on him, moving my hands up to cup his face. “It’s okay,” I whisper.
It’s as if he doesn’t hear me. “When I came home from work that night she was nowhere to be seen. I did what I usually did, ate some dinner, cleared my emails, went to bed. I didn’t bother calling her, didn’t bother trying to find out where she was. As far as I was concerned, she wasn’t my problem any more.”
He pulls my head to his, until our foreheads are touching. “I took a couple of sleeping pills—prescribed by my doctor for anxiety—and fell asleep. According to the police, they think Jane came home around one in the morning. They had witnesses to say she was in a bar on Rose Street until midnight. They thought she took a taxi home, though the driver never came forward.”
I shiver, in spite of the flames burning in the open fireplace next to us. Callum puts his hands over my own, holding them there, as if he’s afraid I’ll let him go. But I don’t want to release him; I want to touch him until the anguish disappears. I want to make everything right, I just don’t know how.
“I didn’t wake up until the alarm went off, just before six. The clock was on Jane’s side of the bed, and she always used to sleep through it. Normally I’d just roll over her and reach for the snooze button. But this time I couldn’t move.” He shudders, caught up in the memory. “The pathologist says I woke up at the worst time, just as rigor mortis was setting in. She’d been dead for four hours.”
This time it’s me who starts shaking. I can’t begin to imagine waking up next to a dead body. Especially somebody you loved.
I press my lips to his cheek. “She died next to you?”
“Officially it was classed as Sudden Adult Death Syndrome, although cocaine usage was a secondary factor. The reason I couldn’t move was because she was half-lying on me, her body weighing me down. It wasn’t until I was fully awake that I realised she was gone.”
“Is that why you woke up tonight?” I ask. “Because I was cuddling you?”
“It just reminded me...” He breaks off. “I didn't want to think of her with you lying next to me.”
When he starts to cry I kiss away the tears, tasting their salty sweetness. I kiss him all over, on his mouth, his nose, his forehead. I stroke his face and murmur softly, telling him I’m here, that I’m not leaving.
That’s where we stay for the rest of the night, until the morning creeps its way in, reminding us that even when our lives are rocked, the world still goes on. In the course of those pre-dawn hours, as we talk and caress, I realise I’m in love with Callum Ferguson.
22
There's something truly magical about realising you're in love with somebody. It's as if the world becomes a pretty backdrop made just for us, and the surrounding people are simply a cast of extras. For the past week, I've spent the days waiting until I can see him again, and the nights in his bed.
On Monday, Callum catches me as I'm walking to a meeting, dragging me into a breakout room for a heated kiss. We're getting careless but the lure is too strong. Falling for someone is funny like that. It makes you feel invincible, the resulting adrenaline an anaesthesia that protects. So we flirt and we kiss, and pretend we're living in our own universe, hoping nobody will notice the passion growing between us.
Of course, somebody always notices.
On Thursday, after a meeting where Callum seemed more intent on eye-fucking me than troubleshooting, he sends me a text asking me to meet him back at his place. I accept readily, stuffing my papers into my bag so I can leave the office on time. That's another thing that's changed—for now at least—we're both leaving earlier than we ever have. No more late nights squinting at the laptop or on endless video-calls to the US. We prefer to spend our evenings wrapped around each other.
I take the underground to his house, pushing my way through the evening commuters to emerge onto his street. Winter has finally set in, twisting her icy fingers around the city, and I pull my scarf around my face to stave off her chill. When I get to Callum's house, it's dark and empty, so I take out the key he pushed into my hand a few days ago, feeling excited and nervous about letting myself into his house. It makes everything feel real, knowing he wants me to be able to come and go, and I like the way the trust is building between us.
Everything changed after that night in his living room. The final door has been opened, and all our secrets have escaped. There's this man—this beautiful, strong, vulnerable man—and it makes my chest feel full to know he's mine.
The frostiness of the outside air follows me, and I keep my coat on when I step inside. Dropping my bag, I flick on the hall light, and make my way to his kitchen to put on the kettle.
Even the floors are freezing, but I'm not sure how to turn on the heating. I glance at my watch and hope he'll be home soon, that he'll build a fire like he has every day this week, laying the wooden logs in a carefully ordered fashion. There's something very sexy about his Boy Scout obsession with fire, and the way his face lights up with achievement when the flame starts to burn, that makes me want to throw myself at him every time.
Most of the time I do exactly that.
The kettl
e is coming to a rolling boil when I hear his key slip into the lock, and the front door open. I hear him drop his case on the floor, hang up his coat, and the thud of his dress shoes landing in his cupboard.
He walks into the kitchen, his tie loose around his neck and his top few shirt buttons open, revealing his chest. He leans on the granite work surface, tilting his head to the side, smiling at me as I take another mug from the cupboard.
“What?” I'm smiling, too. “Don't you want a cup of tea?”
