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Chapter 33
Friday 5th March
I haven’t been very constructive this week, workwise, and I really need to get back to it properly – it’s a distraction, if nothing else – but sitting at my desk at The Hub just hasn’t felt like a priority for some reason. As it’s Friday though, I decide I might as well take the day off, get my head together over the weekend, and start to focus properly on work again on Monday. Focus on work, and on everything else that’s coming up in the next few weeks, of course, even though most of it really is out of my hands.
Jess came through with the contact for me in Cardiff last night; as she’d suggested, it’s Darren Edge, a former partner and close friend of David Howells. I email him first thing with my usual cover story, slightly concerned as I do so that he might be surprised that I’m latching onto David’s murder so quickly, but to my relief he emails back within an hour.
The police do indeed seem to have zero leads, which is very distressing for all of us. I hold the view that any publicity is good publicity therefore, so I’m happy to chat to you. Could we leave it another few days though? It’s still very raw. Would next Friday work?
I’m more than happy to oblige, and we fix a lunch meeting in Cardiff. Once that’s done, I potter around the house, getting some chores done, but by four o’clock I’m bored and lonely, and looking forward to Pete coming home. Megan – to my secret joy – is on her travels again tonight, teaching at a yoga retreat somewhere in the Midlands, and Pete suggested this morning that as we’ve barely seen each other this week, it might be nice to have a movie night. I think, reading between the lines, that he’s still feeling a little guilty about heading off to Megan’s last Sunday and leaving me here on my own, so I tell him that would be lovely.
‘And some bubbly would be nice, if you’re passing the offie on your way home,’ I said cheekily as he left for work this morning, and he rolled his eyes and grinned.
‘Yes, Your Highness. Champagne it is, then. I suppose you deserve it,’ he said, and I smiled back.
Now, not expecting him home until at least six, and anxiety starting to bubble up again, I run a deep, fragrant bath, find a soothing piano music playlist and pour the last large glass of sauvignon blanc from a bottle already open in the fridge from earlier in the week. I sink into the bath with a weary sigh, but an hour and several hot water top-ups later the warm bubbles, music and, no doubt, the wine have worked their magic, and I’m feeling calmer than I have been in weeks.
Focus on the moment. Don’t look too far ahead. One day, one hour, at a time,I keep telling myself.
By the time I hear Pete open the front door and call up the stairs to ask if I want him to open the Champagne immediately and bring a glass up with him, I’m snug on the sofa in a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, my feet bare, the lamps on and Adele’s latest album playing quietly through the ceiling speakers.
‘Well, this is all very nice!’ says Pete, as he walks in, two flutes of pale straw-coloured liquid in hand. He passes one to me, and I take a sip. It’s cold and delicious, the bubbles dancing on my tongue.
‘Mark at Montpellier Wine had a few already chilled, so I bought three bottles,’ he says with a wink. ‘I know what you’re like, Ellis. Right, I’m just going to get changed and then we can order some food. I fancy Thai, what do you think?’
‘Fine by me,’ I say, and raise my glass. He winks again and leaves the room. Minutes later, he’s flinging himself onto the other end of the sofa and reaching for his own glass, and once we’ve ordered the food – spicy squid salad, a beef massaman curry and a chicken pad thai – we chat easily about his day, and then he fills me in on some gossip he’s heard about an old mutual friend of ours from our London days, a guy who’s just allegedly left his wife for a barman he met on a night out in Soho. We don’t talk about Megan at all, or about the diary, or the murders, or what’s due to happen in a few weeks’ time, and it’s just … just sonice. So normal. Me, and my lovely friend, my housemate, having a drink and chatting and laughing and putting the world to rights on the perfect Friday night in.
By the time the food arrives, in true Pete and Mary fashion –how many times have we done this?– we’ve already drunk the first bottle of Champagne, and by the time we’ve eaten, on our knees in front of the TV, the second is on its way out too. It feels wildly extravagant – Pete certainly didn’t buy the cheapest bottles on the shelf – which isn’t normally my style, but for some reason that doesn’t seem to matter right now.
Strange, isn’t it, how the prospect that one might die in a few weeks’ time changes one’s perspective on almost everything, I think, as Pete clears away the plates. When he comes back up into the lounge after dumping them in the kitchen, he sits down right next to me, his knee touching mine.
‘Another drink?’ he asks, and I nod. He refills my glass and then tops up his own. It’s after 10.30pm by now;The Graham Norton Showhas just started, a programme we both love, but tonight I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on the chat. Maybe it’s the combination of the bath, the alcohol, and the big meal, making me a little woozy. Or maybe – and if I’m honest, I think this is what’s really distracting me – it’s the feeling of Pete’s muscular thigh against mine, the way his fingers keep brushing against my hand as he picks up his glass to take a sip and then puts it down again on the floor in front of the sofa.
Stop it, you idiot,I tell myself firmly.It’s just the booze, and the stress …
But now my mind is flitting back to that night a couple of weeks ago, when I had my meltdown and I thought for a few intoxicating seconds that we were about to kiss, and how confused I felt about it, wondering what I would have done if he’d actually made a move. And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, I know exactly what I’d do. I turn my head to look at him, and I don’t feel confused at all. Iwanthim to kiss me, I realise. I want to feel his hands on my body, his lips on my skin.
Where has this come from? And why now? And what about Megan? And what the hell am I going to do about it?
As if he can hear what I’m thinking, Pete turns to look at me too. For a moment, it’s as if there’s an electric charge fizzing between us, the air almost crackling.
‘Are you OK, Mary? Really OK, I mean? There’s just a few weeks …’
He says the words softly, his dark eyes fixed on mine, but it’s not the conversation I want to have right now and I hold up a hand to shush him.
‘Not now, Pete, please. When … when will Megan be back?’
He hesitates for a moment before he answers.
‘Tomorrow lunchtime, I think. But … things aren’t great … I … Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
He swallows, and am I imagining it, or has he edged a little closer to me on the sofa? I can feel the heat from his body now, hear his quickening breathing, and my stomach does a little backflip, my heart rate speeding up.
This is ridiculous. Is something happening here?I think.
And then I’m not thinking at all, because Pete is leaning towards me, closer and closer until our noses brush. And then suddenly we’re kissing, hesitantly at first, but then his hands are in my hair, and mine are gripping his thigh, and I know this is wrong, that it shouldn’t be happening, but I simply don’t care, because it’s … it’s justso damn good. I feel Pete’s hands moving down my back now, sliding up under my top, warm against my skin, and I know I want this, Ineedthis. I groan softly, and in one swift movement he’s pulled my T-shirt over my head and his lips are trailing downwards from my collarbone, butterfly-soft kisses that make my insides feel as though they’re melting. I reach for his belt buckle, and he doesn’t stop me.
The sex is incredible – passionate yet gentle – and afterwards we lie there on the sofa, legs entwined, my head on his chest, both silent except for our laboured breathing.
