by Sue Watson
I think how Tom must have felt just like this when I finished with him, and feel a stab of sadness and guilt, and I’m compelled to touch Alex’s arm to comfort him.
‘That sounds rough.’ I sigh, hoping that Tom finds someone to heal his wounds, like I hope Alex has.
‘Oh, people go through far worse. I… I’ve been told I take things too seriously. I’m always the one who gets hurt,’ he adds sadly.
I touch his arm again in a comforting gesture and he acknowledges it with a slow smile.
‘Anyway, I’m moving on. I’ve been there before, I’m used to saying goodbye. I lost my mother when I was nine years old – after that, nothing can really touch you again.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I didn’t expect him to open up quite as much as this. I also lost my mum when I was young, but don’t mention it now, it’s Alex’s turn to tell his story. ‘I didn’t realise your mum died – I’m sorry. When you said you weren’t in touch with your parents, I assumed…’
‘Yeah. My dad’s still around, he remarried. I’m not in touch with them.’
‘Ah, that’s not easy, especially for a young child,’ I say. I’m used to dealing with the impact of step-parents in the lives of some of my clients and I know how difficult, how damaging, those relationships can be.
‘I just expect everyone to leave me eventually. And when my last relationship… ended, I found it hard to come to terms with. It’s taken me until now… I hate goodbyes.’
‘I can understand that,’ I say softly.
‘She just went, left her stuff… some of her clothes are still in the wardrobes, she wanted to go that much she didn’t even pack properly.’
I sigh, his hurt is tangible.
‘When she walked out, I didn’t just lose her, she took everything else – all the plans we made, marriage, kids, even holiday plans. The minute she left, she took all my tomorrows. You know?’
I nod, realising this was obviously a long-term relationship, a big deal, but not relating to what he’s saying. I don’t really know how that feels, because Tom and I never made any plans, we never had any shared tomorrows, so mine have stayed intact. But seeing the way Alex’s eyes fill up as he recalls his hurt, I can’t help it, I feel a sharp prickle of jealousy for a woman I’ve never even met.
He gives a mirthless laugh. ‘I flip from hurt to anger when I think about her, and… and what she did to me.’ He shifts in his seat. ‘I thought I glimpsed her the other day. I was walking through Worcester and thought I saw the back of her walking into a dress shop. And all those feelings, the hurt… came flooding back. I mean, I’m over her,’ he adds, looking at me, to reassure me, ‘but it’s not easy.’
‘Oh so she still lives here, in Worcester?’
‘She went away for a while – but I heard she’s back.’
My stomach dips slightly at the prospect of them bumping into each other and him falling for her all over again. Or her falling for him?
We sit for a while, both in our own silence. I wonder what he’s thinking, and given how raw his last break-up seems for him, I also wonder if he’s ready to move on.
‘Okay, it’s after 9 p.m.,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘Sorry, that got way too deep. The dinner is late, and probably cremated.’ He stands up, holding out his hand to me.
‘I’m sure it will be fine. I’m famished,’ I say and, taking his proffered hand, stand up too. As we walk towards the kitchen, I tell him I need to pop to the bathroom.
‘Up the stairs and second door on the right,’ he says, as he heads back into the kitchen.
I run up the stairs, part of me flushed with wine and pleasure while the other part wrangles slightly with what all this means, and the scariest question, is he still in love with his ex?
Pushing the door into the bathroom, I’m soothed by the dim lighting, and impressed again by Alex’s eye for design. The walls are grey-and-blue watermarked stone, and ultra-modern vanity units in deep mahogany wood sit side by side. There are two sinks, and I note with a sense of anticipation that the shower is also big enough for two. Several large bottles of expensive shower gel stand waiting on a shelf – and even the towels are co-ordinated. Rolled up like the insides of rosebuds, they sit in squares on the wall. Just like the rooms downstairs, this has been considered and meticulously executed.
Having found him to be perfect so far, I really thought his home would be a tumbledown, messy, bachelor pad – not like this. Nothing is out of place, no dirty socks on the floor, no overflowing bathroom bin, the shower is gleaming, as are all the beautiful surfaces.
I wander over to the two vanity units. On top are a selection of dark-brown bottles. I reach for the large eau de parfum – Cuiron, by Helmut Lang. It looks expensive, sophisticated. I spritz the air and as it settles around me, the smell becomes vaguely familiar – it’s Alex. I remember melting into that first kiss on my doorstep, a heady infusion of pine, and aged leather. There was something else though, and now I can identify it, a rich smoky aroma secretly winding through the pine-fresh forest. Light and shade, revelations and secrets.
I glance up at the enormous shower head, imagining the two of us together under hot spikes of water, the smell of pine and sweat… then, with a sting, I see her with him under the shower. A faceless, nameless woman, her perfect body entwined with his. I brush my fingertips against the softest, fluffiest towels and imagine them wrapped together in a cloud the colour of the Pacific. I am dizzy with jealousy – and desire. Desire for him, for us, for this life together, here.
I don’t even own my place, my car is a hundred years old and, if I’m honest, I’ve never even considered the colour of a wall before. But now there’s this man, who has the kind of smile that makes me forget about work and court orders and safeguarding and homeless teens. Here’s someone I can escape with, who can take me away from it all with beautiful towels, big hot showers and a fragrance wafted in from paradise.
I move to the basin and wash my hands in heaven-scented liquid soap. But I can’t avoid seeing myself in the mirror. God, I’d forgotten that I’d rushed here, hadn’t changed or redone my make-up. How has he been looking at this face for over an hour? Among all this minimalism and polished stone, I look like I don’t belong. And yet, just beneath the doubt, there’s a shimmer of hope, that with someone like Alex in my life, I could belong, and achieve everything I want to. After a lifetime of being second best, not quite the real thing, is this someone who might finally make me feel like their number one?
Hoping to find something to comb my hair with, I open the bathroom cabinet under the sink. Inside, there’s the usual bathroom paraphernalia – plasters, paracetamol, a tub of moisture cream – but nothing simple like a comb, or even a bit of lip balm to soften the edges of this evening’s car-crash look.
I close the cabinet door and spot a black toiletries bag on the side, just sitting there, not out of place, in its spot. Zipped up.
I think about opening the bag. I tell myself I mustn’t. I’m in desperate need of a comb, but I shouldn’t look in here, it feels too intimate – like opening someone’s diary. I struggle for all of three seconds, then open it. Rummaging around, I can’t see a comb, but I see more of Alex. His toothbrush is an unusual tortoiseshell, the toothpaste expensive, not like my supermarket-brand cheapie. I reach further in – tweezers, nail clippers, so many grooming tools. But no comb.
I’m beginning to feel slightly ashamed for riffling through this man’s personal stuff, but I need to make absolutely sure there’s no comb. Anyway, what harm will it do to know what kind of toothpaste he uses? I’m just getting to know him… more.
Suddenly, my fingers alight on something flat, pushed down the back of the bag, and I bring it out between two fingers. I can barely make it out at first, but slowly it dawns on me what it is. A worn photograph – of a woman, but her face has a furious pen mark through it. Like someone wanted to scribble her out.
Chapter Nine
I don’t understand the photo I’m holding in my h
and. The pen mark is running diagonally, and angrily, across a woman’s face. She looks around my age, late thirties. Her long blonde hair sits on bare, brown shoulders, she’s wearing a strappy top and straw hat. It looks like a holiday snap. The woman is laughing, and holding her hand up to the camera as if to say ‘stop’.
I’m shocked. Tonight I learned that if you look hard enough in someone’s bathroom, there’s a good chance you’ll find something unsettling. And this is pretty unsettling. It’s probably Alex’s ex, which makes sense. I’m sure if you rummaged around at my place you’d find a photo of Tom, though most of them are on my phone – I never got round to deleting them. But this picture is worn, has obviously been looked at too many times, and it’s tucked away in his toiletries bag. He’s keeping it somewhere safe, so he can easily find it perhaps. But why has the pen been slashed right through her face, like a knife?
I catch myself again in the mirror, holding the photo, and wonder once more if I’m ready for all this. Whether I am or not, I’ve been up here long enough, I can’t delay any more.
I walk back downstairs feeling uncertain, but vaguely comforted by the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. I’m starving, I’ve hardly eaten all day. So what if he drew a line through the photo of his ex? He admitted he was upset, and he probably did it when she first walked out, when he was angry. Tom’s done far worse, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a similar ‘inked’ picture of me, several in fact. Let’s face it, the mildest of people have the capacity to be enraged when someone they love walks out. It was probably a momentary flash of anger, and he hid the photo in the toilet bag because he was ashamed of what he did to it but couldn’t bear to throw it away.
I put on a smile and walk into the kitchen, where Alex pulls out a seat at the table for me to sit down. The table’s been laid beautifully, including a vase of autumn leaves and bright-orange Chinese lantern flowers, a stunning contrast against the greys and blues of the kitchen. Hard to believe the same person who created this ‘tablescape’ also ran a pen through a photo of his ex-girlfriend’s face.
I try to put the image from my mind and, touching the papery, bright-orange orbs, ask, ‘Did you just arrange these while I was in the bathroom?’
He laughs. ‘No, I bought them from the florist yesterday when I thought you were coming over. But when you couldn’t make it, I kept them in the utility room, hoping they’d last until today.’
My heart breaks a little at his thoughtfulness, and I push away the image of the woman’s laughing face, the ink ripping through the photo. Now I’m getting to know him, I can see he puts his all into what he does, and even for a romantic weeknight supper, he takes care of the table foliage. Okay, so he hates his ex – I can live with that. I can help him move on, to let go of his anger and resentment. In this moment, I just want to live here with him in this beautiful bubble of warm garlic and earthenware crockery. I could be happy here – happy and safe. It would be a proper home.
He opens up the oven. Blasted by the heat, he jumps back, and I wonder how often he really cooks. But soon, he brings the steaming dishes to the table and, placing them down carefully, he catches my eye, and we both smile affectionately. I want to ask him if the woman in the photograph is his ex. I want to know when he tried to scribble her out, and if he’s over it like he says he is. I also want to ask if he could ever see himself loving another person. Like me. But instead of these big, important questions, I talk about nothing that really matters.
‘It looks delicious,’ I say, and ask if I can help, but he won’t hear of it.
When he eventually sits down, all he seems to care about is that I’m enjoying the food, that I have wine and water, and that I’m happy. I notice his forehead’s shiny with sweat, and I can see by his face when he asks, ‘Is it okay?’ that this means a lot to him. He needs for me to like what he’s put before me. I’m grateful that he cares, and willing to oblige.
‘This is absolutely wonderful,’ I say. The tasty lamb with chickpeas and fragrant spices warms me to my bones, as does his smile across the table.
‘I’m so glad. Like I said, I got the recipe from a friend at work. She makes this a lot and I always love it, so I decided to make it for you.’
I smile through an irrational wave of jealousy at the very thought of him dining with another woman.
‘She’s obviously very talented,’ I say, trying hard not to imagine this ‘friend’.
We chat some more, and Alex refills our wine. It’s warm and comfortable, he’s amusing and makes me feel very relaxed, so relaxed that I eat and drink until I can’t eat or drink any more.
‘Don’t forget I made your favourite ice cream,’ he reminds me.
‘Lovely! I feel so spoiled.’ Despite being full I don’t want to disappoint him after he’s gone to so much effort, and I can always make room for pistachio ice cream.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet.’
I laugh. ‘Is this another of your friend’s recipes?’ I ask, subtly digging.
Alex doesn’t answer me, but gets up and goes to the freezer, lifts out a Tupperware container, holding it aloft with both hands like a priceless ancient artefact.
‘This has been a labour of love.’ He sighs as he begins scooping out the pale-green, creamy confection.
‘Ahh, that’s so sweet of you to go to all that trouble for me,’ I say, touched at the way he’s placing the ice cream in two glass bowls, painstakingly adding extra pistachios to the top. Just for me.
‘Home-made pistachio ice cream,’ he says, walking to the table and putting a bowl down in front of me. ‘I just hope it tastes okay.’
I can’t resist the soft, creamy ice cream topped with crunchy, salty pistachios. ‘This is wonderful,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe you made it yourself, I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Well, it’s true, I did.’ He leans towards me. ‘Do you like it, honestly?’
‘Yes, yes I love it.’
‘It took me ages, I wanted it to be perfect – I want everything to be perfect for you, Hannah.’ He’s looking at me intently as if all that matters is my happiness, and it’s both amazing and a little unnerving because I’ve never had this kind of attention in my life.
My earlier doubts after finding the photo disappear. I figure he may have even forgotten it’s in there, because certainly right now he doesn’t seem to be thinking about anything else other than me and making me happy. And it’s working because I haven’t felt this happy for a long time.
As I finish off the ice cream, savouring every spoonful, Alex opens the wine I brought, and I realise if he drinks more, he won’t be able to drive me home like he offered. But right now I feel utterly comfortable with Alex, so why not see where the night takes us? I can always call a taxi. And anyway, it’s been a long time since I did anything spontaneous.
He fills my glass and, moving the carrier bag containing Harry’s sweets, he looks inside. ‘I love Smarties,’ he says, like an excited little boy. ‘My mum always bought them for me when I was little, and this,’ he says, holding the round Father Christmas container up to the light, ‘this is quite an exceptional piece.’ He jokes in the voice of a posh antiques dealer, which makes me laugh. ‘Yes, a fine specimen from the seventeenth century… the Ming Dynasty perhaps?’
‘Mmm, I was thinking it’s more the mini Sainsbury’s dynasty – the Beech Road area, circa earlier tonight?’ I join in.
Without taking his eyes off mine, he slowly begins to twist the Father Christmas head.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, surprised.
‘I’m opening them.’
‘They’re for Harry,’ I say, aware I sound rather childish.
‘I know,’ he answers, continuing to twist, still not taking his eyes from mine.
‘Don’t open them, Alex, I’m warning you…’ I say, joking, but wishing he’d take the hint and put them back in the carrier bag. ‘I’m going to give them to him tomorrow.’ Alex twists once more. ‘He likes… Smarties,’ I say desp
erately, as he twists harder and pulls the lid off the tub.
‘So do I.’ He throws his head back and pours the brightly coloured chocolate sweets into his mouth.
‘Alex!’ I gasp, surprised and a little pissed off. I wasn’t comfortable with him taking them from my carrier bag, but to open and eat them feels like something more. ‘I can’t believe you’d do that.’ I try not to sound angry, but I am.
‘And I can’t believe you’d buy gifts for other men,’ he says, smiling through a mouth bulging with Smarties. Then he seems to realise, probably from the look on my face, that I’m not happy. ‘Sorry. I was only teasing,’ he says, putting the lid back on.
‘Yeah I know but I’ll have to buy another box now.’
He moves towards me, his arms open, and a rather awkward hug suddenly turns into an embrace and, before I know it, we’re kissing and I’ve almost forgiven him.
‘Sorry,’ he murmurs in my ear, his warm breath making me shiver. ‘I thought it would make you laugh, it was silly.’
‘No, it’s fine, I overreacted, it’s a box of sweets, it really doesn’t matter, just don’t do it again,’ I say with a mock frown, and look at him like a teacher letting a cheeky kid know they’ve been spotted.
We kiss again, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter, it was nothing, he did it in fun, and I can easily buy some more.
Later, we sip coffee together on the sofa, and he asks me about my past relationships. ‘So, I told you all about me, and my tragic history with women, what about you?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure you did tell me all about you,’ I say. It still feels very sketchy. ‘I know you broke up with your girlfriend last year, but you never even told me her name.’
‘Does it matter?’ he says softly, gazing into my eyes and twisting a lock of my hair around his finger.
‘No, I don’t suppose so – but it’s pretty basic.’
‘Helen – her name was Helen. I met her through work. She’s a lawyer, a good one, far brighter than me.’
