I’d just assumed she was a long-term traveller. Not for a moment did I consider she was just on a two-week sun holiday.
There’s a photo of boots she bought in Dune in George’s Street. (This sounds biased, I know, but they’re not nice: the heel is a disappointment.) Another photo of her out on the piss with ‘her girls’ on Friday night, then one of her in bed – alone – on Sunday morning, drinking Berocca.
It’s hard to know what to make of this. Except now I can’t keep tabs on Hugh. I guess I’ll have to wait until he pops up, tagged by some other woman. Unless he’s planning to move to Edinburgh to be with Raffie.
It’s possible – he’d be able to get work there. And maybe I should be happy because he’d be nearish, for Sofie and Kiara, but all I feel is sick.
72
Tuesday, 22 November, day seventy-one
Room 18, he’d said in the text. I’ve used this hotel a couple of times to house clients, but I’ve never been up here on the third floor, which is a warren. The corridor doglegs around a corner, leads through a fire door, up a half-flight of stairs and – oh! Right, here’s room 18.
A quick moment to rearrange my hair, but before I’ve even knocked, the door is wrenched open and Josh pulls me inside. The door slams behind us and he’s pushed me up against it. I can’t believe I’d once thought his grey eyes were unremarkable when the promise they contain is probably the sexiest thing about him.
He takes my face in his hands and breathes, ‘This has been the longest seven days of my life,’ then kisses me with everything he’s got.
My body is already alive, every nerve-ending hair-trigger sensitive. He’s unbuttoning my dress, I’m fumbling to open his jeans, he takes one of my nipples into his mouth, I slide out his erection, he pulls down my knickers, I unpeel his jeans.
It’s different this time, rougher, faster, everything happening very quickly, and it suits me.
In probably less than three minutes, both of us are half undressed, he produces a condom. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says, and slides it along the hard length of himself. He lifts my legs, I wrap them around his waist, then he thrusts his way deep into me, pushing my back against the door.
It’s so intensely sexy that I exclaim with pleasure.
‘You like that?’
‘I love it,’ I gasp. ‘Do it again. Do it faster.’
‘Say –’
‘Fuck me faster, Josh!’
His hands are on my bum, my hands are clawing his hair, his mouth is on my breasts, and my heels are pushing against his buttocks as he pistons into me.
‘Amy.’ He’s panting into my ear. ‘I’m going to come.’
I haven’t yet and he knows. ‘Please come, Amy,’ he pleads. ‘Please come.’
But it’s too late: with a short, sharp howl, his body freezes and he pulses and twitches inside me. Eventually he whispers into my neck, ‘Sorry.’
‘But we’ve got all night.’
Tenderly, he carries – carries – me to the bed, and after a quick trip to the bathroom to dispose of the condom, he undresses himself, then me. Then, with his mouth, he delicately works me into a frenzy and keeps me poised on the edge for endless exquisite time, before eventually delivering me.
My head floats away and again and again I hear myself saying, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’
When I open my eyes and return to the world, he’s once more stiff and erect. ‘Look at what you’re doing to me,’ he says. ‘This week, Amy, I’ve been horny as fuck. I haven’t wanked so much since I was a teenager.’
I cough with shock.
‘What d’I say? What? Talking about wanking?’
‘Mmm.’
He laughs. ‘I can show you.’
‘No!’
‘No? So what should I do instead?’
‘You know.’
‘Say it.’
A long time later, he says, ‘I’ve downloaded The Grand Budapest Hotel for you.’
I light up with pleasure at his thoughtfulness. He’d also ordered a cheese plate from room service for me.
‘But what’s with the sackcloth and ashes?’ he asks. ‘Wanting to come here, instead of the posh hotel.’
‘This is fine,’ I say. ‘It’s got everything we need, and we’re less likely to run into anyone who might know you.’
‘It’s not just that, though?’
‘I don’t want money wasted that could be spent on your family.’
‘And?’
‘Mmm.’ I try to find the words. ‘It’s not right to dress this up, to disguise it as something it’s not.’
‘So what isn’t it?’
It’s a struggle to express myself. ‘It isn’t a relationship. And it isn’t okay. Your wife … I can’t feel not guilty. And I don’t want to.’
‘So, as long as you don’t enjoy yourself too much, you can do this?’
‘No. It’s as long as I don’t lose sight of what’s right and what’s wrong.’
His expression is a mix of exasperation and affection. ‘My little Sackcloth. You don’t know the first thing about my wife. For all you know, she might hate me – she might be glad about this.’
It’s hard to believe that. But who knows? People are endlessly surprising.
‘What’s she like?’
‘You sure you want to know?’
‘Yes.’ Maybe.
‘She’s … confident. When I met her, I just knew that, yeah, I’d met my match. First woman I knew wouldn’t take shit from me.’
‘So why are you doing this? With me?’
He takes a while to speak. ‘Things change, don’t they? The kids. I love them, I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt them, but they’re tough going.’ He sighs. ‘When you have kids, you live your life under a permanent shadow.’
I don’t know what to say. The kids brought me and Hugh closer together. And yet Hugh is on the other side of the world and I’m in bed with Josh Rowan, so maybe I’m the very same as Josh.
As Josh drifts off to sleep, he turns over, snuggles into me and murmurs, ‘My little Sackcloth.’
73
Wednesday, 23 November, day seventy-two
For once my flight home isn’t delayed and the traffic isn’t horrific, and when I arrive home on Wednesday evening, Neeve, Sofie and Kiara are clustered in a huddle on the couch. They’re talking intently and, when they notice me, abruptly fall silent. Anxiety seizes my chest – something’s up.
I’m not really superstitious, I don’t believe in a vengeful God. But words flash through me – punish, amoral, harlot.
‘What?’ My breath won’t come.
After a weighted hesitation, Neeve flicks her glinty eyes between Kiara and Sofie and says, ‘She’s pregnant.’
The internal condemnatory voices intensify: bad woman, bad mother, bad example.
‘Who is?’
‘Sofie.’
I drop my bag and go to her. ‘How are you, sweetie?’
‘Scared.’ She begins to cry.
‘Tell me.’ I curl on the couch and gather her tiny, bony body to mine. While this isn’t ideal it’s not the worst thing that could have happened.
‘It was an accident.’ She sobs into my shoulder. ‘I’d left my pill in Mum’s but I was staying in Granny’s.’
‘She took the morning-after pill,’ Kiara says. ‘It cost sixty euro.’
‘But it mustn’t have worked,’ Neeve says. ‘She should get her money back.’
‘What does Jackson say?’ I ask.
‘He’s scared too.’ Now she’s really sobbing, the hard, out-of-control convulsing that comes from terrible fear. ‘We’re both so scared.’
‘Shush, shush.’ I stroke her head of soft bristles and let her cry. Already I’m in crisis-management mode. ‘It’ll all be okay.’
‘Please can I have an abortion?’ Sofie sounds piteous.
‘If you’re certain that’s what you want?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ She pulls away from me. Paradoxically she’s never seemed so grown-up. ‘The state of me, I can’t even take care of myself.’
I’ll have to take her to London. Unless I can get my hands on some illegal pills and we do it here at home. But wouldn’t that be dangerous, doing it without medical advice? How would you know the pills were the correct ones? How would I take care of her during it? And after? With sudden fierce force, I miss Hugh desperately – his kindness, his good sense, his reassuring presence.
I wouldn’t be doing the right thing as Sofie’s sort-of-mum if I didn’t offer an alternative path. ‘You know we’d all help you, if you decided to go ahead with the pregnancy.’