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I’ve called my mother. Again. And she’s not answered.
The woman is fucking useless.
She’s the only one who may be able to shed light on this situation. Perhaps Kit talked to her? Confided in her? She thought the sun rose and set with Kit, so they were close.
Sadly, I couldn’t find a way to please Rowena when I was young.
Dude. Move on.
I’m tempted to call Maryanne, but I don’t want to worry her, and she mentioned she was on nights this week—so she’ll be busy right now. The woman works too hard, considering she doesn’t have to.
Placing my fist against the cold glass, I lean my forehead against it, stare out at the darkness, and reflect on the day, starting last night with Alessia’s meltdown in her sleep. How can I burden her with Caroline’s revelation when she’s still having nightmares? She doesn’t need to know this… not yet, anyway. Especially as she’s having doubts about me and my—what did she call it—colorful past.
The women.
I hope to God I’ve reassured her. I don’t know what else I can do.
Despite the silent treatment earlier, my sweet wife has been the saving grace of today—joining her while she played Claire de Lune. Making love. And her cooking. This evening she made a delicious lamb and aubergine concoction. She’s a magician in the kitchen, but I think her father was right; she’s going to make me fat—though we burnt off some calories tonight…so, there’s that.
A vision of Alessia on top of me, grasping my wrists, tipping her head back and crying out in ecstasy invades my thoughts, arousing my libido, and leaving me hot and heavy with need. I contemplate returning to bed, waking her, and losing myself in her again.
Mate. Let her sleep.
But these fleeting feelings of joy evaporate quickly. As I stare across the glimmering dark river to Battersea Park, I feel numb as my mind gnaws at the news about Kit.
Health-wise I’m fine—in fact, I’ve never felt better.
But is something awful going to afflict me in later life? Or did this genetic issue, whatever it was, solely affect Kit?
I keep returning to the same depressing theory. Is this why he was riding his motorcycle through the icy lanes? Was the news so devastating that he thought Fuck it and let rip on his Ducati, the turbocharged beast that was his pride and joy?
I have no idea.
And if the news was that bad, does that mean I’ll suffer horribly? Will Maryanne?
Fuck.
Thank God for contraception.
Until we find out what’s happening, I can’t contemplate kids. Can I?
Shit. This uncertainty. This ignorance. This powerlessness. It’s torture.
Nothing’s changed.
My rational self tries to reassure me.
But that’s not true. The path I thought I was set on has altered entirely.
Mate, you don’t know that yet.
Hell.
I open my texts and notice the one that Caroline sent earlier.
You look good, Maxim.
You always do.
I’m sure this is nothing to worry about.
I ignore her compliment.
Can’t sleep.
Keep thinking about Kit.
Me too.
Sorry about today.
You don’t need to apologise.
Where’s the Albanian?
Fuck off, Caro.
You make that sound offensive.
My beloved wife Alessia is asleep.
FFS! Chill. She’s Albanian!
Good night.
Maxim, don’t be like that.
In spite of the why, it was good seeing you today.
I miss you.
Cx
What does that mean? In disgust, I toss the phone on the sofa, not wanting to deal with Caro’s shit and wondering why I even texted her in the first place. Returning to Alessia, I slip into bed.
As I do, she stirs. “Maxim,” she whispers sleepily.
“Hush. Go back to sleep, baby.”
She shuffles over, so I’m forced to put my arm around her, and she lays her head on my chest. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, fighting sleep.
A tangled knot of emotion forms in my throat as I feel her slip away and settle back into her dreams, and I’ve never felt as grateful for my wife as I do now.
My love. I kiss her hair and close my eyes as a knot of fear and regret forms in my throat. Will we make it through this? Whatever it is?
I breathe in her fragrance, and it’s a balm to my misery.
I’ve got you. Those words, in her accent, float through my brain, soothing me, and I drift.
The following crisp, chilly morning, I walk to my doctor’s, which is a few streets away from our flat, for my appointment and hopefully some answers. The brisk, efficient receptionist ushers me into his consulting room as soon as I arrive.
Dr. Renton is wearing his usual sharp suit and red bowtie. In his sixties, with lank, thinning hair, he stands when I enter his office and waves me to a chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you, Lord Trevethick?” He gives me his familiar avuncular smile as he resumes his seat.
“My brother. Genetic counseling. What do you know?”
“Ah.” His bushy gray eyebrows shoot up his forehead—he’s taken aback. He leans forward in his chair, and his eyebrows make the return journey as he frowns. Propping his elbows on his desk, he rests his chin on his hands. “I can’t help you, my lord.”
