In the meantime, we snatch moments here and there, meeting in hotel rooms on the odd afternoon and running together in the morning. The runs mean no touching, which is hard, but mostly I just love to be with him. To talk and laugh and forget reality, even for just half an hour.
It’s a constant challenge to keep our relationship secret at work—the looks that pass between us, the desperation to barge everyone out of our paths and throw ourselves at each other, damn anyone who’s watching. The sneaky touches, the private jokes. I loved my job before. Now, with Jack by my side on the projects we’re working on together, it’s truly amazing. I’ve found I seek his council. I ask him for his opinions and whether ideas I have can work. Knowing it’s Jack who is bringing so many of my ideas to life makes them more than just a project. They’re now all part of our story. We’re building more than just feelings and love.
I won the contract with Brawler’s. Jack made sure of it, singing my praises at every opportunity. I wasn’t about to let him down. The drawings were passed with only a few minor amendments, and he made a point of delivering the news before Brawler’s did. He called me while I was on my way to a meeting, and hearing how excited he was for me made me cry. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I stood at the entrance of Warren Street station. It’s my biggest project to date, and a huge addition to my portfolio. I always seem to be buzzing these days…until I think about her and the dirt tarnishing my happiness.
There’s been no mention of what happens next and when. When Jack and I are together, we tend not to focus on depressing subjects…like his wife. Like how his day has been. I don’t need to ask. I see it on his face for a fleeting second every time I see him, before he breathes in deeply and throws his arms around me. And in that moment, everything is better again. I’m following Jack’s lead, trusting him…
Because I’m so hopelessly in love with him. I can’t make this any harder for him than it already is.
As much as I try not to, I’ve become more and more dependent on Jack, how he makes me feel, the encouragement and support he gives me. The devotion he lavishes me with, too. But he’s not wholly mine. I’ve promised myself never to give him that ultimatum. I won’t make demands and throw my weight around. He deals with that enough already. Besides, my fucked-up inner self never wants him to have the opportunity in our future to throw the words “I left my wife for you!” in my face. Call me stubborn. Call me nonsensical. I don’t care what. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Or maybe I’m protecting whatever shreds of integrity I have left.
I’ve managed to keep the fact that I’ve fallen in love with a married man from my friends. They wouldn’t understand. I’ve seen the reactions of people who have found out about affairs. They tarnish each and every adulterer with the same brush. I accept that many affairs are based on nothing more than sex—something exciting and daring in a life of boredom and discontent. But what about the people who meet that little bit too late and share something special like Jack and I do? Are we supposed to let that person pass on by, turn away from someone who finds your soul and kisses it?
I know in my heart of hearts that Jack is my soul mate. He’s the missing piece of me. Without him now, I’d be lost. It’s as simple as that. Call it wrong. Call it sinful. I can’t turn my back on the man I love. I can’t do it to him, and I can’t do it to myself. That’s my reality. A reality I now accept.
I’ve been busy keeping up with all my projects. Today I’m on Colin’s site overseeing the installation of my spectacular glass roof. Each individual pane of glass has been cut in France and shipped across the Channel. I’m praying they’ve made it here without any damage, and as I stand on the street watching the lorry rumble up the road toward us, I frown. “I thought we specified a HIAB lorry,” I say, looking at one of Jack’s men, Bill, standing next to me. He’s a crabby old sob but, as Jack reminds me daily when I gripe about him, he’s a good worker and he knows what he’s doing.
“The HIAB broke down at Dover.” He makes his way toward the lorry, guiding it down the narrow street.
“Great,” I mutter, following him. “Then we need to leave the panes on the lorry until the crane gets here.”
“No can do, love.”
“Yes can do!” I argue indignantly. “Those glass panes cost a fucking fortune!”
He ignores me and whistles, getting the attention of the driver of a small forklift. “Around the back, mate!”
“You are not moving my roof with that thing!” I gawk at Bill, between panic and anger. “And where’s my fucking crane?” I shout, losing my shit.
“Caught in traffic in Westminster,” Bill says, unperturbed by my hissy fit.
“Bill. I don’t think you’re hearing me.” I calm my tone and try to reason with him. “This roof is special.”
“And I don’t think you’re hearing me, Annie,” he argues back, calmer than me, as the delivery wagon comes to a stop. “This lorry is blocking the road and causing anarchy. The crane could be hours. We need to get those panes off and clear the road.”
I look up at the packaged glass, praying to every transportation god there is that they’re all still in one piece. If the roof has to be re-ordered, it’ll blow the schedule and budget to pieces. “If this goes wrong, the haulage firm will seriously wish they’d never met me.” I’m speaking hypothetically, obviously, since the haulage company hasn’t actually met me.
Bill laughs a big belly laugh. “Have faith.” He pulls on his safety gloves. “Up!” he yells to his forklift driver.
I watch with bated breath as the first pane gets negotiated from the back of the lorry, a dozen men spread around the sheet to control it as it’s shifted to the side of the pavement. “You’re just going to dump them there?” I ask incredulously. “On the side of the road like a pile of trash?” Oh, shitting hell, this isn’t good.
“Where else do you suggest we put them?”
“On the fucking roof!”
“I don’t think the crane is gonna reach from Westminster, love.”
I yell, frustrated, and grab my phone, dialing the plant hire firm. “Annie Ryan,” I announce, stomping over to the first pane as it’s lowered to the ground. “I should’ve had a crane in Clapham two hours ago and it isn’t here.”
“It’s stuck in West—”
“I know it’s stuck in Westminster,” I say lowly, my jaw tense. “But that doesn’t help me, does it?”
“I can’t control traffic in the city, sweetheart.”
“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. What time did it leave the depot?” There’s silence, and I scowl down the line. “And don’t fob me off with traffic jams when you failed to dispatch with enough time to make it to the site.” I know how these hire companies operate. “I have a bespoke glass roof blocking the road. I need to get this roof on by the end of the day, and if that doesn’t happen, I’ll be heading your way.” I hang up before he gives me any attitude, wincing as I watch Bill pull back some of the protective packaging that’s keeping my roof safe. “Tell me it’s in one piece,” I beg.