I bump awake. The world is in complete darkness and I’m wondering what’s woken me – my head zips through my usual worries: Hugh, Sofie, money, Kiara, Neeve, Pop, Mum, Josh … Then I realize it’s Marcia. Again. The guilt is acute. I’m not built for being the other woman.
I haven’t seen Josh for nearly a fortnight – we didn’t meet last week when Sofie was in London but I’ll be with him tomorrow. Or – a quick look at the clock establishes – later today.
Josh and I have had three Tuesdays together in a hotel room, where all my sadness is put on hold. My complicated grief about Hugh disperses for those few hours and I lose myself in Josh, in how badly he wants me. During those hours, my guilt about Marcia lifts, but as soon as I’m on my own again – and that’s most of the time, I see Josh for a mere six hours a week – it returns, often waking me in the middle of the night.
What I’m doing to Marcia is every kind of wrong.
Thinking of my devastation when I caught Richie or – far worse – seeing those photos of Raffie Geras with Hugh reminds me that I’m doing to Marcia what those women did to me.
In theory, Josh is the one who owes loyalty to Marcia – I owe her nothing – but life is not that simple. In fact, when men cheat, it’s the women who get the blame: the wife for not being hot enough or the slutty adulteress for preying on a man who ‘belongs’ to someone else.
My plan had been to let things run until the end of the year. Tomorrow night – today, whenever – is the second last time I’ll be in London before Christmas. So I’ve only two more nights left with Josh. And I don’t want it to be over.
‘Josh?’
‘Sackcloth?’
‘Next Tuesday will be the last Tuesday I’m in London before Christmas. I won’t be here again until January the tenth.’
‘What?’ He scrambles to sit up in the bed.
‘The Tuesday after next week is the twenty-seventh and the one after will be January the third. There’s no point in me coming to London then – nobody will be around.’
Josh is doing calculations. ‘So we won’t see each other for three weeks?’
Now is the time to remind him of my end of year deadline, and I don’t.
‘I’m not happy,’ he says. ‘It’s hard enough seeing you only once a week.’
I feel the same.
Suddenly he says, ‘Come away with me. In the time between Christmas and New Year. For a couple of days.’
I don’t instantly dismiss it. ‘Where?’
‘Where would you like?’
‘Where would you like?’ Because I’m curious.
‘You love clothes,’ he says. ‘We could go to one of the fashion capitals? Milan?’
I’m surprisingly touched but I have to laugh. ‘Milan would put the fear of God into me.’
‘Paris?’
Sharply I shake my head, and he says, ‘Too romantic for my little Sackcloth?’
‘Too clichéd.’
An expression passes over his face … He looks pissed-off. Just slightly. But …
Quickly I say, ‘Where would you like?’
‘I like places with history. Berlin is cool. I’ve never been to Venice –’
‘We’re not going to Venice.’
‘Cliché?’
‘Cliché.’
‘St Petersburg?’
‘Absolutely not. Because Putin.’
‘The Lake District?’
‘Nowhere in the UK.’ I’m certain about this. ‘I feel shitty enough about your wife and we’re not running the risk of anyone who knows her seeing us.’
‘So where isn’t too clichéd or too romantic or too in the UK?’
I can’t think of anywhere.
‘Is there a place you’ve always wanted to go? There must be somewhere.’
There is, actually. ‘Serbia.’
He hoots with laughter, then stops abruptly. ‘Oh, God, you’re serious.’
86
Wednesday, 14 December, day ninety-three
My phone rings. I pick it up from the table and look at it – as expected, it’s Josh. Again. The third time he’s rung this morning. Usually our communication is via text, but I’m guessing he wants an actual conversation because we’d parted on very frosty terms last night. After he’d laughed at my mini-break location request, I’d got dressed in hot-cheeked silence and, even as he pleaded with me to stay, I left.
An incoming text beeps and, yep, it’s from him: Please talk to me. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Let me make things right.
No. He can sweat a while longer.
Like, obviously I’m going to talk to him again. This – my pique, his contrition – is just a game, one I’ve played in the past. I genuinely was hurt but – gun to my head – this bit is enjoyable.
When he rings for the fourth time, I pick up and sigh, ‘What?’
‘Can I see you today?’
‘No. Back-to-back meetings.’
‘After work?’
‘Airport. Then flying home.’
‘What time is your flight? Meet me at the airport before you go?’
‘Why?’
‘Meet me and I’ll tell you.’
He’s hunched over his phone in a booth at the airport Prêt. His coat is off, his grey-blue shirt pulling against the broadness of his shoulders, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal his forearms. Then he sees me and smiles, the real thing, the one he commits to. ‘Amy.’ Even how he says my name is pathetically thrilling.
‘Hey.’ I sit opposite him.
‘I got you mint tea.’
‘Thanks.’
Quietly, only his mouth moving, he says, ‘I hate not being able to kiss you.’
‘Who says I’d let you?’
He sighs. ‘Will you forgive me?’
A sudden urge to cry nearly overwhelms me.
‘I’m in pieces,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously. I was surprised, is all. But, Sackcloth, that’s you – you keep surprising me.’ He shifts his hands across the table, and when he touches his knuckles off mine, a charge zips through me.
There are people all around us, but speedily I grab his hand, so I can feel the warmth of his palm against mine, then just as quickly relinquish it.
‘So I’ve investigated,’ he says, talking over the racket. ‘Your Serbian museum is only an hour and a half from Belgrade. It’s open for all of December because they don’t do Christmas there until January the seventh.’
‘You actually spoke to them?’
‘A woman at work speaks some Serbian. She did the translating. So, early flight out of London on December the twenty-seventh, getting into Belgrade at one p.m. local time. Hire a car, head south, be in your museum by three. How’s that sound?’
‘Um, terrifying.’
He laughs. ‘We can drive back to Belgrade that night and stay in a posh hotel for two nights. Or we can do a sackcloth-and-ashes special in your museum town – I’ve already looked, we’d be spoilt for choice – then one night in Belgrade. We fly back to London on the twenty-ninth.’ He pauses for impact. ‘Well?’
‘What would you tell your wife?’
‘Whatever you like. I can tell her the truth.’
‘Don’t!’ That’s the worst idea ever.
‘What if I have to? What if I’ve fallen in love with you?’
I watch him. Is he even serious? ‘Don’t.’
‘Should I book the flights?’
‘Slow down. I don’t know. Let me think about it. I’ve to go now.’
‘I could come to Dublin for those nights instead?’
I definitely don’t want that. Someone would see us and tell the girls. ‘Seriously, it’s time for my plane. I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Amy,’ he leans towards me and clamps his hand over my wrist, ‘don’t go.’
‘I ha–’
‘Get a later flight.’ His face is hungry. ‘Come to a hotel with me instead.’
I’m struck dumb. But my body has lit up, every nerve end wanting to feel his touch. It’s so tempting …
‘Go on,’ he says. Then he mouths silently, ‘I’m so hard for you.’
Under the table I slip off my shoe and slide my foot up along his leg until I reach his groin. I inch higher and he’s quite right, he’s rock hard – and the heat that’s coming off it. With the sole of my foot placed along the length of him, I press down hard. He makes a choking noise.
Unable to hide my amusement, I wait for him to recover. ‘You still good to go?’ I ask. ‘Or was that it?’
Huskily, he says, ‘I’m still good to go.’
I grab my bag. ‘Well, come on, then.’
87
Thursday, 15 December, day ninety-four
‘Who’s paying?’ This is Derry’s first question.
‘Him.’
‘Oh-kay.’ She’s impressed.
‘Bad feminist?’