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Despite the rain, he gets out too and takes my case out of the boot for me. Then he hugs me tightly.
“You’ll get soaked,” I scold, not wanting his beautiful British suit to be spoiled.
“Don’t care,” he says, hanging on for a few more seconds before releasing me.
I give him a quick, hard kiss, then take my case, run across the road, and go into the airport without looking back.
*
The pain of saying goodbye is alleviated a tiny amount by the piping hot latte and the cinnamon roll that Immi brings me on the plane. I eat the sweet, warmed pastry while I fly through the clouds, feeling the distance growing between us deep inside my heart. God, how can I miss him so much already, and we’ve only just parted? Leaving the roll half-eaten on my plate, I lean back in my plush leather chair and look out of the window, trying not to cry. I knew it was going to be hard to leave him, but I chose to do this anyway, so I only have myself to blame. He hasn’t purposefully made it harder for me. This is all self-inflicted, and if I’m going to flay myself, I have to deal with the pain after the event.
Was it worth it? I suppose only time will tell me that. At the moment it hurts so much. Part of me wishes I hadn’t gone to Wellington, had told him after that first time that I didn’t want to keep in touch. But then I wouldn’t have had the last few marvelous days. I can feel every second of the moment he spent worshiping me in my body—my muscles ache, my mouth feels bruised, and I’m tender down below, which isn’t a shock considering how many times we managed to make love. At least he tried to make sure I was well-lubricated each time. My lips twitch. He worked very hard at that.
I put my elbows on the table and cover my face with my hands. How long is it going to take me to stop thinking about him kissing down my body, burying his mouth in me, sliding his tongue inside me? Oh Jesus, how can I give that up now I’ve tasted it? Now that I’ve tastedhim? He’s going to haunt me, I know it already. All I can do is deal with the visions when they come, and hope they gradually fade as the days go by.
*
When we land, there’s already a text message waiting for me. My heart sinks a little as I open it, convinced he’s going to tell me he’s missing me, which is only going to make me feel worse.
It’s a picture of an Egyptian mummy lying desiccated and withered in its sarcophagus, and underneath the message,Love from King Tut x
It makes me laugh out loud, and for days to come, every time I think about it, I smile.
*
The next week is busy, as Mum and I cram in as much time as we can with Charlie before she heads off to the South Island.
Kip messages me all the time, but I can’t bring myself to tell him to stop. If the messages were heavy, declarations of undying love, constant assurances that he missed me, or all about sex, I might have resented them, but they’re not. He sends me small, funny messages and memes, links to songs on Spotify or books on Amazon, and sometimes selfies if he goes somewhere interesting or sees something he wants to share with me. I tell him about a book I’m reading and enjoying, and he starts reading it too, and we begin messaging each other when we’ve finished a few chapters to discuss them. It’s such fun that we continue with the next book, and it’s lovely receiving his messages, especially late at night, when we’re reading at the same time. I like imagining him stretched out on his sofa, soulful music playing in the background, the sliding doors open and the curtains blowing in the breeze, and a whisky glass resting on the table as he flicks through the pages.
He doesn’t mention calling, though, so I don’t have to turn him down, and for that I’m thankful.
On Thursday 26th, we take Charlie to the airport. She’s sad to be leaving, but I can see she’s also super-excited to be going to Christchurch. She and her friends are going to be hiring a car and driving down to Queenstown and then Dunedin before flying back to Wellington for her last year at university, and she’s really looking forward to it.
We go with her as far as we can, me pushing Mum in her wheelchair, then stop just before the entrance to the gates. She gives Mum a big hug, promising to call and text regularly. Then it’s my turn to say goodbye.
“You’re sure you don’t mind me going?” she asks for the umpteenth time.
“Of course not.” I make a shooing gesture.
Still, she hesitates, glancing at Mum, who’s ferreting in her purse for a tissue, before saying to me, “If you’d rather me stay so you can go back…”
“Charlie,” I say firmly, not wanting Mum to hear, “it’s done, and I’m fine. Go on. Have a great time.”
Reluctantly, she gives a final wave and heads off.
We wait until she disappears around the corner, then make our way slowly back to the car. It takes a few minutes to get Mum and the chair in, and then I drive home. We don’t say much on the way. It’s almost unbearably hot. It’s the height of summer now, and it makes me think about Kip’s bedroom—the way the tulle curtains fluttered in the breeze when he had the sliding doors open, and the sunlight that fell across the bed like gold bars.
My memories of those days don’t seem to be fading like I’d hoped. If anything, they seem to be intensifying. I find myself thinking about him at odd times—while I’m doing the dishes, weeding the flower beds, and in the shower—especially in the shower. It’s impossible not to remember his hands sliding over my wet skin, his hot mouth on mine as the water poured over us. I’ve given up trying not to think about him, though. Actually, I find the memories comforting, like having a box of treasures I can open, take out, and examine whenever I feel low. And I’ll always have them, I realize as I drive. No matter what happens now, they’re something that nobody can take away from me.
When we get home, I retrieve the wheelchair from the back, help Mum into it, and push her inside. I take her into the living room, help her out and into her armchair, and make sure she has a drink. Then I say, “I think I might have a lie down, if that’s all right.”
“Actually,” she says, “I wondered whether we could have a chat.”
Surprised, I nod and take a seat on the sofa. I’ve opened the doors to the garden, and I can smell the lavender and roses I planted beneath the window for her. “What’s up?” I ask. My heart gives an unexpected knock in my chest. The last time she did this, it was to tell me the results of a test that revealed a deterioration in her eyesight. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” She folds her hands in her lap, takes a deep breath, and fixes me with a determined gaze. “Do you love Kip, Alice?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
