I sip my cold coffee and force myself out into the sunshine. The fresh air feels good on my burning face. It’s still early and the dawn chill is lingering in the sunshine. I hope I haven’t got it all wrong. I hope my faith in Louise isn’t misplaced. I hope she is everything I think she is. If not, this could all get very complicated. I don’t let myself linger on that. I have to be positive.
First of all I need to sleep. Properly sleep. I’m tired, emotionally and physically, but every time I close my eyes, they’re all I can see. His pathetic sadness sitting on her tatty couch. Their drunken fuck. The tears of self-pity in the shower after he flushed away the condom. The way he scrubbed at his skin with the travel-sized shower gel he’d had in his jacket pocket, one that matches his brand at home in case I smelt some lingering scent of her from across the hallway. Her guilt and longing. I feel sick all over again.
PART TWO
19
LOUISE
‘Why did you become a psychiatrist?’ I ask. I can’t actually believe that I’m lying in his arms. This is the first time he’s stayed and talked to me rather than rushing to shower away his guilt and then leave. Tonight we’ve really talked, about my divorce, my night terrors, the ridiculous dates Sophie has tried to set me up on over the years. We laughed, and it was a good sound to hear from him.
‘You really want to know?’ he says.
‘Yes.’ I nod against the warmth of his chest. Of course I want to know. I want to know everything about him. Despite having vowed that this would never happen again, this is the third time in ten days he’s turned up at my flat. Once was at the weekend – and even though I tell him every time to go home and we can’t keep doing it, I still let him through the front door and into my bed, and I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s as if my resolve melts when I see him. Worse than that, I actually long to see him. We drink, we fuck, he looks at me so wistfully that it breaks my heart. It’s stupid. It’s crazy. But it makes my heart race. It makes me throb. It lets me lose myself for a while. I try to pretend he’s the-man-from-the-bar so I don’t feel so bad, but I know I’m kidding myself. There’s something that draws me to them both.
I should have told David about knowing Adele, but the moment to say something passed long ago and if I told him now I’d look crazy. But neither can I bring myself to end the friendship with Adele. She’s so vulnerable. And she shows me another side of David that intrigues me almost as much as she herself does. Every day I decide that one or other of them has to go, and every day I avoid making the decision.
I’m already a bit in love with Adele in a strange way; she’s so beautiful and tragic and fascinating and kind to me. And then there’s David; a dark mystery. He’s gentle and passionate in bed, but never talks about his marriage, which I know is toxic on some level. I know I should give one of them up, but I can’t bring myself to. I feel as though I’m woven around both of them and they’re woven into me. The more I fall for David, the more fascinated I become with Adele. It’s a vicious circle.
I’ve started to try to compartmentalise, like he does. I’ve separated them. Adele is my friend and David is my lover, not her controlling husband. It’s not perfect, but for now it’s almost working. There are Adele days, and David nights. Maybe I even see more of him than she does. I don’t like how that makes me feel. Almost victorious.
‘When I was a teenager on the farm there was this little girl who used to follow me around. She was lonely. Her parents were rich – they owned the big estate – and they spoiled her but also ignored her, if you know what I mean. They were busy people. Sometimes too busy to really spend any time with her. Anyway, she’d chatter away while I worked, telling me about her night terrors that kept them all awake,‘ David says. ‘After I realised she was really quite worried about them, I found a book on sleep and dreaming in a charity shop and gave it to her.’ I stiffen slightly, as I recall Adele mentioning the book, and it’s obvious that she’s the little girl he’s talking about. I feel momentary guilt as well as curiosity. Why doesn’t he say that his wife used to have bad dreams? It’s not as if I don’t know he’s married. Why does he never reference her?
‘Did it help?’
‘I don’t think so. It was all very new age if I remember properly and full of crazy stuff. It was also way too old for her to understand properly. I think her parents took it away from her in the end, and sent her off for some therapy instead. She was only eight or nine at the time. My father was a farmer. Well, he was a better drinker than he was a farmer, and whenever he’d have an accident with the machinery I’d patch him up. I knew I wanted to be a doctor of some kind, even though it felt like a pipe dream at the time, but giving the little girl that dream book was the first time I wanted to help the inside of someone’s head. The bits a scalpel can’t reach.’ He pulls me in tighter then, and even though he’s really not told me much about himself at all, I feel like this was an effort for him to share.