Breach of Faith

by Andrea Hughes

  “An old friend’s sixtieth.” She looked at her watch. “Damn, I don’t have time now but I’d love to catch up for a coffee.”

  I nodded and rummaged in my bag, “I’ll give you my number. Give me a call.”

  Tucking the scribbled note in her pocket, Paula’s face fell. “I was sorry to hear about you and Frank.”

  I stared at Paula, “what have you heard?”

  “I’ve just come from Frank’s,” Paula explained, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder in the direction of the bakery. “He told us you two had broken up. Oh, Kate, I was sure you were a match made in heaven, you seemed so perfect together. He’s putting on a brave face but he’s pretty cut up about the whole thing.”

  “He’ll survive!” I said savagely.

  Paula gazed curiously at me, “of course he will. He’s survived tougher than this.”

  I glanced around before my eyes found Paula’s once more, “you mean his … problem?”

  “He told you about that, did he?” Paula replied glumly, “he doesn’t usually like to advertise it –”

  “I wonder why?” I replied sarcastically.

  “—but,” Paula pretended not to have heard my comment, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of –”

  “Oh, of course!” my sarcasm had turned sour.

  “—it’s a disease that can affect anyone. Anyone at all.”

  “A disease … that’s right.”

  Paula frowned and glared at me, “do you have a problem with Frank’s condition? Is that why you broke up?” She was furious. “I thought so much more of you, Kate. I never realised you could be such a … a bitch. Bloody hell, I can’t believe you’d dump him over this.”

  I grabbed Paula on the arm, “it’s not like that. You know what happened to his wife and baby. You must know what he did to them? What if he’d hurt me too.”

  “You? What’re you talking about?” Paula shook her arm hard, dislodging my grip, disregarding my comment. “He didn’t know what was going on, he’s not a doctor.”

  “You’re telling me he didn’t notice himself drinking too much?” I was sceptical.

  Paula blinked, suddenly confused, “drinking too much? Frank doesn’t drink too much.”

  “What? But … he said –”

  Paula rubbed her hand across her eyes, “did Frank tell you he had a drinking problem?”

  “Yes,” I was adamant, “he said he was drinking a lot back then. Too much. And it was his condition that had made him hurt Cassie.”

  “Did he say, specifically, that he was an alcoholic?” Paula was still glaring at me making me feel belligerent. Had Frank really kept this secret from his best friends?

  “I told you what he said.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Paula looked thoughtful, “Frank told you he had a problem that had contributed towards the accident?”

  I nodded impatiently.

  “So you, in your wisdom, put two and two together and assumed he must be an alcoholic.”

  “He didn’t deny it,” I was beginning to feel just a little bit stupid.

  Just a little bit?

  Paula sighed, “oh, Kate. You idiot.”

  There was silence for a moment and I licked my lips, ‘so … Frank’s not an alcoholic?”

  Dimwit! Bonehead! Plonker!

  Calmer now, Paula shook her head. “I’ve seen many alcoholics in my time as a nurse and they all tried to hide it from the people who wanted to help them. I’ve seen most of the tricks, heard all the excuses and if Frank is an alcoholic I’ll run down the main street of Rowley naked. That’s how positive I am.”

  I closed my eyes breathing heavily, suddenly feeling rather faint. I put out my hand and grabbed the railing beside us.

  “Kate? Are you all right?” Paula grasped my arm, steadying me.

  Ignoring the question, I opened my eyes and looked wearily into Paula’s bright green gaze. “What’s Frank’s problem?” I asked finally. “What really happened that day?”

  Paula checked her watch then led me to a nearby seat, urging me to rest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded, “tell me, Paula, tell me what’s wrong with him.”

  “You should ask him.”

  I gritted my teeth, “Paula, I’ve just accused him of being an alcoholic when he’s not. Please, you have to tell me the truth.”

  Paula hesitated then shrugged. “A few years ago Frank started to feel unwell. Headaches, fevers and fatigue were the main things to start with, then I noticed he was losing a lot of weight and Cassie mentioned the terrible night sweats. There were other symptoms as well and we all urged him to see a doctor.” She paused, “I think he realised that something was wrong and it wasn’t just the flu. He was scared and to tell the truth, I can’t blame him.”

  I frowned, “but you’re a nurse. Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, diagnosed him or something?”

  Paula shook her head, “it’s not that easy. The symptoms he was displaying are non-specific, it could have been any number of medical problems. I had my suspicions, of course, but only hospital tests could confirm a diagnosis. It was the incident with Cassie and the loss of his baby that finally made him realise he had to do something about it.”

  I scraped my lips with a dry tongue. Suddenly I was feeling nauseous myself. “What was wrong?”

  With tears in her eyes, Paula took a deep breath, “leukaemia, Kate. Frank has leukaemia.”

  Chapter twelve

  1 November

  Taking a deep breath, I shoved open the door, dreading what I was about to do but knowing I had no choice; this was going to be the most difficult meeting of my life. Stepping inside I peered around and slowly let out the breath I had been holding. So far, so good.

  “Hello?” my voice sounded insignificant in the immense space; I didn’t remember the bakery being quite so big. Funny what tricks your mind can play on you.

  “Can I help you? We’re closed.”

  I glanced wildly at the door. The blinds were pulled down and the window displays empty. Not a pastry or croissant in sight. Confused, I swung back to find Frank standing behind me. Close enough to touch.

  “The door’s locked. How did you get in?”

  “I’m sorry, I … I thought you were open. I need to speak to you.”

  Frank stared unblinking; I drowned, of course, in those eyes.

  How original.

  His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, hypnotising me. “You want me?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes,” I croaked, “I need you.” I reached out and touched his hand. “I’m so sorry, Frank. Paula told me –”

  Frank placed his finger gently on my lips, silencing me with a touch. His finger left my lips, travelling lightly, slowly, following the line of my neck towards my breast, his other hand sliding down my back until it reached my bare buttocks.

  Bare buttocks? You hussy.

  I gasped as my nipple rose against his palm, goose bumps bubbling up my arms making me shiver. We were naked as he lay me down softly on the rug at our feet, our naked bodies entwined, his knowing hands caressing and seducing my eager skin. His touch delicate but firm.

  “Why didn’t you tell me,” Frank murmured

  I groaned in pleasure as his tongue caressed my nipple, the warm moistness making my hips thrust gently upwards, begging for him to enter me. Abandoning my breast, his mouth moved lower, kissing and caressing with tongue and lips. I could feel his hands, gently massaging my stomach.

  “You should have told me, Kate.”

  Opening my eyes, I peered past the softly rounded flesh of my breasts, to where Frank’s hands were lovingly fondling my belly. I sucked in a sharp breath of air as I studied my body, massively pregnant, writhing with life of its own.

  Giving a cry of shocked repulsion, I desperately pushed myself backwards along the floor with my feet. Escape. Escape. Putting my hands firmly on the floor, I gave one almighty push …

  “Ouch.”

  … and
opened my eyes, as my head smashed into the wrought iron bed head, images of the recent “Frank dream” still engulfing my mind.

  “Bloody hell that hurt,” My eyes watering, I rubbed the bump on my skull and tasted blood from a bitten tongue. Will snorted softly in his sleep and shifted position, but I stilled my rubbing as the ultimate message of the dream finally hit me.

  “I have to talk to him. I have to see Frank.”

  *

  “What are you going to say to him? Martha glanced sympathetically towards where I was perched on the armchair, my head in my hands. Tom was on the other side of the room, playing crashing games with his toy cars, and I kept my voice low.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted sighing deeply and finally raising my head. “I still can’t believe I jumped to the conclusion he’s an alcoholic and it was the drinking that killed his poor baby. I have a lot of apologising to do.”

  Martha smiled, “well, that’s a good place to start.”

  “I think it’ll take a little more effort than just a quick ‘sorry, Frank, and by the way can I have a loaf of raison bread please?’,” I groaned. “I’ll have to work out what to wear.”

  Martha looked puzzled, “why do you have to work out what to wear? Isn’t it more important to be honest and sincere?”

  I felt my face get hot, “well, yes, but it’s for confidence, isn’t it. I’ll feel stronger in clothes I feel … good in. This is really difficult, you know?”

  Martha shrugged, “okay. So what are you going to wear?”

  Flashes of last night’s dream pounded my mind, “I thought I’d go the whole hog. Black silky bra and those little knickers that only cover half my bum. They’re nice.”

  Martha raised an eyebrow, “were you planning on covering any more skin or are you just trying to get yourself arrested?”

  “Of course I’ll cover up,” I replied defensively, not catching Martha’s eye, “probably my … blue dress.”

  “The short one? Hmm, yeah, that’ll be great with bare buttocks.”

  I glared at Martha, “okay, smart arse, what do you suggest?”

  “Smart arse? That’s what they’ll be calling you and your bare backside,” retorted Martha, ignoring my withering stare. “What I really want to know is why does it matter what sort of undies you have on? It’s not like Baker-Boy will see them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why, Kate? You know I’d support you even if, heaven forbid, you decide to walk there in a gorilla costume, but I don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”

  I stared at my friend in consternation, “Martha,” I said slowly, as if speaking to a backward child, “I accused a man with cancer of being a selfish alcoholic and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was a child killer. Do you really have to ask why it bothers me.”

  Martha patted my knee, “I’m sorry. I do appreciate that you’re upset and embarrassed about what happened but, Kate, why are black, sexy knickers so damned important? What the hell is wrong with white cotton? You’re apologising, not seducing. I truly think you’re blowing this whole situation out of all proportion. Say you’re sorry, he’ll probably be a bit pissed off but, if he’s a true friend he’ll forgive you. You’re not his girlfriend, just a casual friend and a relatively new one at that.”

  I sighed heavily and glanced towards Tom who was making a serious effort to poke a toy car up his nose. Grimacing, I turned back to Martha and smiled tiredly, “you’re right, as always. What would I do without you?” I paused, “I guess I’m just tired.”

  Martha shrewdly studied my weary face, “you always seem to be tired recently?”

  I shrugged and looked away, “don’t worry about me.”

  Martha reached out and put gentle pressure on my cheek, forcing me to look at her. “Kate, you do trust me, don’t you?”

  “You’re my best friend.”

  “Then talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  My shoulders slumped. “All right,” I said in a low voice with another look at Tom. “I’m pregnant.”

  Martha took a sharp breath in, a questioning smile spreading across her face. “Oh, Kate, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”

  “Well, if you think that feeling sick, tired, bloated and emotionally unstable … not to mention irrational, is wonderful, then be my guest. Personally, I’d love a stiff drink but … oh damn … something else I can’t do right now.”

  “Does Will know?”

  I paused. Then paused again.

  “Kate? Have you told Will?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Why?

  “Oh, great,” I muttered, “you’re back.”

  “What?” Martha’s eyes darted wildly around the room.

  I grinned, “nothing. There’s more to the story … if you’d like to hear it …?”

  I’d love to hear it.

  Chapter thirteen

  1 November

  I strolled down the street, clenched fists giving away my agitation. Forcing myself to relax, I stretched out my fingers and smoothed my already wrinkle free skirt over my thighs. Telling Martha the whole story had taken a great weight off my mind; hopefully this apology would finally put an end to all the stress.

  Thinking back to our conversation I chuckled, remembering the stunned look on my friend’s face. The story was enough to shock anyone but, as the tale had progressed, the shock had been replaced by sympathy and, finally, dismay.

  “You have to tell him,” she had said, squeezing my hand hard enough to rub the bones together.

  I smoothed down my skirt for the umpteenth time, “but what the hell do I say?”

  “Great arse, love!”

  I looked around in surprise as a grinning young man strode past me, winking as he overtook.

  In the end my stubbornness had prevailed regarding my clothes. Black lacy undies beneath my blue dress. The light cotton swished pleasantly around my thighs; and Martha was wrong, it wasn’t too short. Going by the recent comment I had attracted from that stranger, it obviously moulded itself nicely to my buttocks too. Resisting the urge to smooth the skirt down over my bum, I halted.

  I was here.

  Peering intently through the door, I could discern just two figures standing inside. Both were customers and as I watched, another figure appeared on the other side of the counter, paper bag clutched in his hand. It was Dreadlock Man. Frank was nowhere to be seen. Stepping back from the door, I surreptitiously adjusted my bra, smoothed my skirt, fluffed up my hair and ignored a couple of wolf whistles from a building site on the other side of the road. This skirt must be a better choice than I’d imagined. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the bakery door.

  Dreadlock Man was filling a box with doughnuts, “be with you in a moment,” he called, without looking up. After a cheery, “see ya later,” to doughnut woman, he finally turned to me.

  “Ah …” he said knowingly, nodding thoughtfully, “it’s ‘Miz Chocolate Fudge’. Got a fresh one here with your name on it, love.” Despite myself, I couldn’t resist looking and peered curiously through the gleaming glass front of the cabinet.

  “Looks wonderful,” I agreed, bending over slightly to get a better look. Hearing a sharp gasp from behind, I whirled around to find a teenager sitting at one of the tables, a milkshake in one hand, a blueberry muffin in the other and an expression of shocked embarrassment on his face.

  I smiled, puzzled at his reaction to my words about the chocolate cake. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, maybe he didn’t realise that people over thirty also enjoyed the decadence of chocolate fudge cake.

  I turned back, Dreadlock Man was standing rigid behind the counter, looking like someone had replaced his head with a beetroot. As I watched, the mottled redness crept down the fair skin of his neck, disappearing inside the casually unbuttoned collar of his shirt. He was staring at something behind me and I swivelled around to face the youngster once more; maybe the poo
r lad had exploded or something.

  With a scrape of chair legs on linoleum the boy lurched to his feet and with a wild glance at Dreadlock Man, turned and fled, the shop door clattering closed behind him.

  “Oh,” wondering if my mind was playing tricks on me, I twisted back around to face Dreadlock Man, “do you think he’s okay? Maybe I should check on him.”

  “No!” Dreadlock Man was starting to look distinctly green around the edges, a colour that was clashing horribly with the scarlet and ruby filling his cheeks. He rubbed his face hard with his hands and a sudden, unexpected giggle lit him up making his eyes twinkle and his scruffy beard crackle with released tension

  I smoothed down the front of my skirt again, at a loss to find something more productive to do. I rubbed my face self-consciously, “is everything okay? Do I have a smudge on my cheek, or something?”

  Dreadlock Man giggled again, the childish sound conflicting wildly with his unkempt, manly demeanour. “No, love, not a blemish in sight.” He cleared his throat, “look, love, I should … well, your skirt –”

  “Jim! Could you put these cakes in the display? I’ll take over here.”

  Dreadlock Man jumped and I took a step back at the sudden interruption. I could feel the skin on my face tighten; it’s now or never.

  Knock yourself out, whispered the ever present little voice, a smirk clearly audible in the quiet words, here’s your big chance.

  “I said I’ll deal with this customer,” Frank shoved a large tray of muffins into Dreadlock Man’s hands, “put these away, I won’t be long.”

  Dreadlock Man’s eyes shifted their attention from Frank back to me. Frank was still to even glance in my direction. “But, Frank, she –”

  “Now, please.”

  Dreadlock Man shrugged, winked at me and wandered off with his tray. Fleetingly, I wondered what he was about to tell me before Frank had interrupted and surreptitiously looked down my body at the short blue skirt. All seemed fine so, taking a deep breath, I looked across the counter straight into Frank’s eyes.

  “Hello Frank.” I bit my lip, this wasn’t feeling quite as … special as my most recent dream had implied. Rather than drowning in Frank’s eyes, I was more likely to bounce painfully off the glinting, cold ice that had replaced the welcoming lagoons. Shuffling on the spot like a child in desperate need of the toilet I began.