‘I waited for them to run their course.’
‘Josh, I’m out of my depth. I’m …’ I searched for the right words. ‘I’m not like you. Or like your wife. You’re tough. Tougher than me.’
‘I’m not tough. But, Amy, you love your husband, right? Why are you even here?’ Josh leant forward with intent. ‘Here’s what I think you want. You’d like me to say I don’t love my wife, that we’ve already split up and we’re about to tell the kids. You want to magic away all the mess, the other people, the ones we’d hurt. You want Hugh to still be there for you long-term but for a cosmic hall pass to be given, so he’d never know and you’d not feel any guilt. But, Amy, this is real life and real life is messy.’
His words fell into silence. His assessment was spot-on.
I’d wanted a romance, a love affair, and for any sordidness to be conveniently swept away by the force of our passion.
I might as well admit it. ‘I want to feel … desired, like you’re crazy with want for me.’
‘As it happens, I am.’
My mouth went dry. ‘I want you not to have done it before. I know. I’m pathetic. And hypocritical.’
‘I could have lied and you’d think I was a better man than you do.’
‘I want to be all cool about you and your other … others. But I’m not. I feel like a … hick. Unsophisticated. I want to know details but I despise myself for it.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell you. One lasted about six months, then she met someone else. Another was with a twenty-something and it finished up because I couldn’t take her …’ He fell into thought. ‘Her chirpiness.’
That fitted with the facts I’d gleaned.
‘But this, with you, Amy?’ he said. ‘I can’t take another lunch. I want more.’
So did I. But was I able?
‘Can I think about it?’ I asked.
‘Don’t take too long.’
Was that a threat? Should I get huffy? I decided no. ‘What if I decide to not … go ahead?’ I asked. ‘Will we still see each other?’
‘No.’
Oh.
‘I mean it, Amy. I can’t handle any more of this.’
Maybe I should have been offended – True Love Waits and all that – but I appreciated his grown-up honesty.
Since then, indecision was eating me from the inside out. I’d been waking in the early hours, flip-flopping from one stance to another. I’d decide I’d definitely go to a hotel with him and see what happened. Then a load of guilt would avalanche on top of me because I truly loved Hugh and had always seen us growing old together.
But the draw to Josh was powerful and I’d quickly find myself, once again, planning to sleep with him.
What if I got caught? The thought scared me witless. I didn’t want to hurt Hugh and I didn’t want my marriage to end. Also, what did I really know about Josh? We’d spent a good deal of time together but I’d done most of the talking.
I knew he was hot.
Yeah, I knew he was hot all right!
And over and back I wavered.
What I’d really love would be some sort of disaster where Josh and I got abandoned in a remote place – help would eventually come, that was always on the cards, but while we were waiting, we could behave as badly as we liked.
Meanwhile my sleepless nights had me dragging myself through my days, exhausted and worried-worried-worried, the lining of my stomach worn away by the acid of anxiety.
As Tuesday rolled around, I still hadn’t decided, so I didn’t meet him. But now, eleven days since I’d seen him, as I stood at my hob, frying rashers, I knew I needed a resolution. Today. Right now. Because if this to-ing and fro-ing kept on in my head, I’d go insane.
So I made my choice: no more Josh.
I’d send him an email on Monday. It was a bad idea to see him in person: it would only kick everything off all over again.
Ending it was the right thing to do. Eventually I’d be grateful. But right then I felt how the Little Match Girl must have felt when her last match went out. Pop went all the colour and joy and thrill, and suddenly everything was grey and cold and sad.
‘What’s going on?’ Hugh’s voice came from behind me.
‘Rasher sandwiches for dinner.’ I didn’t turn around. ‘They need to be used up today.’
‘No, I meant …’ He appeared at my side. ‘What’s happened to your clothes?’
‘Oh. I thought my top might get spattered.’ I clattered the fish slice around the pan.
‘But look at you.’ He slid himself between me and the hob. His hands were on my waist and his voice was filled with wonder. ‘Cooking rashers in your foxy bra. You’re like some fantasy woman.’
I glanced down. My bra was red satin. I’d only worn it because all the others were in the overflowing laundry basket.
‘You probably know the football scores as well.’ He swept my hair over one shoulder and buried his face in my neck.
‘It’s July, the season hasn’t started yet.’ I shook him off me.
‘See what I mean? Which other woman would know that?’ He groaned and slid his hands up over my ribcage and under my breasts. ‘Oh, Amy.’
‘Hugh.’ I twisted sideways out of his hold. ‘I’m trying to cook.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Holding my gaze, he reached behind himself and, without looking, found the switch for the cooker. His hand lingered on it for a second or two, then still looking into my eyes, he slowly and deliberately flicked it from on to off. Instantly the red light of the hob disappeared. ‘Whoops,’ he said, widening his eyes with mock surprise. ‘Power cut.’
‘Turn it back on, Hugh.’
‘Come on, babe, the girls are out and you’re so –’
‘Not now, Hugh.’
I stepped away from him and switched the cooker back on. Without meeting his eyes I said, ‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.’
It was almost as if Josh had intuited that I’d decided against him because later that same day he sent a text: So the timing on this couldn’t be worse, but I’m about to send a work-related email. It’s genuine. Josh xxx
Hi, Amy. Hope you’re having a good weekend. An idea came up at a meeting yesterday – would Premilla Routh be interested in doing a weekly column for us? Can be ghost-written, if that makes it more attractive to her. Let me know?
Thanks
Josh
A weekly column? Paid or unpaid? About her recovery from addiction or a more general thing? Time specific or open-ended? There was plenty to discuss but, in principle, it was a welcome proposal – decent money and very little work for Premilla.
She was dyslexic, Josh knew that, which was why he’d suggested a ghost-writer. And that sort of set-up needed a lot of on-going babysitting: instead of Premilla simply writing and filing copy, a week-by-week meet would have to be set up for her to tell her thoughts to the journalist, who would then construct the column. This would be sent to me for approval: very often in these relationships, the journalist either deliberately or accidentally misrepresents something, in the hope of turning it into a more sensational article. Which would mean me having to lock horns with the commissioning editor – Josh.
I couldn’t do it. Extricating myself from him hurt. The last thing I could do was commit to on-going professional contact.
I mulled it over and my options were stark: turning down Josh’s offer without speaking to Premilla, in the hope that she never found out.
But that would be unfair on Premilla.
My other option was to pass Premilla on to Alastair as his client. And say goodbye to a steady stream of income: as Premilla’s publicist, the monthly retainer would go to Alastair instead of me. A sickener but my only real choice.
So I rang her and, with passionate talk of keeping her publicity fresh, sold her the idea of Alastair. She was initally bemused but, by the end of the call, enthusiastic.
Next I rang Alastair and said, ‘Don’t ask me why, because I won’t give you an answer, but Premilla Routh is now your client.’ Just like Premilla, he was bemused but enthusiastic.
Then it was time to deal with Josh.