by Sue Watson
‘How could you lie to me about something so… big?’ I sob.
‘Please, Hannah. You ran out without listening to me. That’s why I wanted to tell you in person rather than on the phone. I knew you’d be upset.’ He holds me by the shoulders and, looking directly at me, speaks clearly. ‘Helen and I are not together, Hannah.’
‘It looked like it to me – you couldn’t have been closer, Alex!’
‘No. Not like that.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me you were married?’
‘I… I don’t know. You asked me about my ex, assuming she was my ex-girlfriend, not my ex-wife. I should have corrected you, I should have made it clear – but one date turned into another and then another and…’ He looks up into the night air, his breath white, like steam. ‘I didn’t want to lose you.’
‘But to find out now is so much worse,’ I cry. ‘I feel like everything I thought we were – we’re not,’ I say clumsily, unable to articulate how I feel.
Alex moves his hands from my shoulders to my waist and tries to draw me to him, but I pull away. ‘This doesn’t change anything, I’m still me and you’re still you,’ he murmurs.
‘If it doesn’t change anything, why didn’t you tell me on our first date?’
‘Because… it didn’t come up. And we had such a great night… I didn’t want to risk anything.’
‘But by not telling me, you’ve risked everything. You lied – all this time. How can I ever trust you?’
His eyes fill with tears. ‘You can trust me, Hannah. Please, please don’t punish me for being an idiot. It was the past.’
‘But it’s your past,’ I murmur into the cold. ‘It makes you who you are.’
We’re standing in the middle of the high street, snow swirling around us, I feel as if my life’s just paused.
‘Darling, you’re freezing,’ he says, attempting to take control. ‘Let’s go back to mine, where it’s warm and we can talk. Our cars are parked at your office, we can collect them in the morning, we’ve had a drink, and I think we’re both too upset to drive, so let’s get a taxi and go back to mine.’
He’s gently ushering me down the road, and I suddenly feel claustrophobic, I need space to think, and as tempting as it is to climb into a warm taxi, and then a warm bed with Alex, I have to make a stand. I’m not ready to go back as we were yet.
‘No, I’ll get a taxi home. I’m not completely comfortable with you at the moment,’ I say, wiping my eyes with gloved hands.
He looks genuinely shocked. ‘I won’t let you just go off into the night like this.’
‘I’m sorry, Alex. There are big things I don’t know about you, and this has made me question everything. I need someone I can trust – I thought that was you, but I don’t know any more.’
‘Oh, Hannah.’ I see tears in his eyes. ‘Don’t, please don’t. You can trust me, I’ll do anything to prove it.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
We both stand for a little while in the snow, staring past each other, neither of us knowing what to say or do. He keeps looking at me, but I don’t make eye contact.
‘Let’s get a taxi together at least, and I’ll drop you off at yours, you can have some time to think?’ he suggests.
I nod, it makes sense and I’m too cold and tired to hang around talking.
He hails a black cab, which, to my relief, stops immediately and we climb in, sitting strangely apart. Alex doesn’t speak, and neither do I. It’s a lot and I need time to process all this. Within a few minutes, we’re pulling up outside my flat.
I climb out of the taxi, try to give Alex a five-pound note, but he’s paid the driver and is now getting out behind me.
‘Stay in the taxi, go home,’ I say, but he refuses. I’m angry, I feel like I’ve been hoodwinked, the plan was that he’d see me in safely then continue on to his.
‘I just want to make sure you’re safely home, I can’t help but worry. Your ex could be lurking anywhere with another bunch of flowers.’ I feel a shiver down my spine thinking about this now, especially after the shadow in the office earlier. In spite of everything, I’m glad Alex is here with me. The snow’s falling thicker now, and a gang of noisy lads are singing their way towards us.
‘Come on,’ Alex says, reaching out for my hand.
I reluctantly let him put his fingers through mine and guide me through the snow to the front door, where I scramble around in my handbag for the keys. I’m desperate just to get inside so I can send him on his way and have some space to think about things.
‘Shit.’ I suddenly realise I don’t have the carrier bag with the folders inside. ‘Oh no, I’ve left the bloody carrier bag in the taxi,’ I say, watching it disappear into white oblivion.
‘No, you only had your handbag in the taxi,’ Alex replies.
‘But I remember putting the bag down on the bench in the wine bar… No, oh shit.’
‘You think you left it in the bar?’
‘I must have.’ I desperately think back. ‘Yes, I’m sure I did. I have to go and get it.’
‘You can’t – it’s late and you’re freezing, call them tomorrow.’
‘I can’t, there are work folders in there. They’re highly confidential, from Chloe’s mental health worker, I haven’t even read them yet.’ But now, anyone could pick it up. I have to get it. God, I hope it’s still there.
I get my phone out.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m calling the wine bar.’
I google the bar, get the number and for the next few minutes wait for someone to answer. Nothing.
‘I’ll call a taxi and go back,’ I say, in a complete panic.
‘No, no.’
‘This is too important to leave until tomorrow, Alex.’ I sigh.
He gently takes the phone from my hand. ‘I’ll go back there,’ he says quietly but firmly. ‘You’re freezing cold and upset and it’s all my fault that you forgot the bag. I know exactly where we were sitting. I remember now, you put it on the floor.’
‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘No you’re not. I’m the idiot for not being honest with you sooner and causing all this upset. I’ll walk back there and I can pick my car up. I only had a glass of wine so I can still drive. If the bag’s there, I’ll drop it back to you. Don’t worry about a thing,’ he says, pointing at me and running backwards.
I don’t argue with him. I know what’s happening here, this is his opportunity to redeem himself, and he’s using it. I let him go, it’s what he wants to do.
I go inside and, closing the door behind me, the shared hall light flickers on a couple of times, then off again, plunging me into darkness.
‘Damn,’ I say to myself, as I crawl slowly up the stairs in pitch-black. I make a mental note to call the landlord, the light’s been faulty since I moved in a year ago, and it’s dangerous.
I open the door to my flat, and then it suddenly hits me what I’ve done. I’m trusting Alex with Chloe Thomson’s secrets, and my career. I wouldn’t have given this a second thought yesterday – Alex is my boyfriend, he’s a lawyer, I sleep in his bed, I use his shower, and I think I love him and he’s someone I can trust. But he never told me he was married and I wonder now how well I really know him, and whether I really can trust him.
I sit in the lamplit darkness of my living room trying to rack my brain for hints he may have dropped or clues he may have accidentally left for me to find. But the more I think about him, the more I realise I don’t know Alex. I know what he allows me to see, his kindness, his humour, his glossy kitchen and Italian power shower in matt black. I know he loves French food, foreign films and minimalist interiors, but I haven’t met his friends, his family – even his colleagues. Come to think of it, despite the wall of photos at his house, there are none of him, and when I asked him who was who he was vague, said they were old friends. But the only photo I recognise is the one of Helen, that he hides in his toiletry bag. So what else is he hiding?
Chapter Sixteen
The doubts have now firmly pushed their way into what I believed was my perfect relationship. As hard as I try to close the door, they’re battering it down and I can’t hold them back. I’m feeling extremely anxious about the files too, so I text Harry to see if he knows of any copies anywhere. I’ve been a fool, only thinking about myself and how I’m feeling – in doing that I’ve inadvertently been putting my clients second. I’ve never done that before, and it has to stop now.
My phone suddenly screeches into the silence, making me jump. It’s Alex’s number and I pick up straight away.
‘Where would you like this package delivered to, madam?’ he says playfully.
‘You’ve got it?’ Thank God. Despite my doubts he’s been true to his word this time.
‘Of course I got it.’
‘Thank you so much, you’ve no idea…’
‘I had a pretty good idea.’
‘I’d have felt so terrible telling Jas.’
‘Well now you don’t have to. Are you happy for me to drive over with it?’
‘That’s really kind, thank you.’
My plan is to thank him profusely and say goodnight; I still need time to think about how I feel. But I’m so bloody grateful when he turns up on my doorstep holding the bag, I invite him in. I almost forgot this is his first time at my flat, and I’m so relieved about the files I’m not even embarrassed about the awful walls, painted circa 1970 when psychedelic orange was ‘in’ for the first time. And when he says, ‘You look totally exhausted, let me make you some tea,’ I don’t even consider the ingrained stains on the white sink, or the half-eaten croissant abandoned in the fridge a week ago. The flat’s shabby, the furniture’s old and, unlike a lawyer, my social worker’s salary does not extend to beautiful interiors.
I had intended to get back early tonight and fill the place with candlelight to hide some of the torn wallpaper, cracks in the plaster and unmoveable stains. This was to be accompanied by a spritz of air freshener and M&S’s finest romantic meal, which is still sitting in the fridge at work. However, that was before I saw Alex and my heart got smashed, along with the most expensive plates I ever owned, even if I only had them for a matter of minutes. It’s all gone to shit now and we’re both here without the dinner and candlelight but still with the cracks and stains and shabby sofa.
I die inside as he pops his head around the door, holding the stiff croissant between finger and thumb.
‘That’s one of Harry’s.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Throw it in the bin.’
‘With pleasure,’ he calls from the kitchen, ‘along with the milk. I take it we’re drinking our tea black?’
It hasn’t taken him long to find the sour milk, which I’d also completely forgotten about. ‘Sorry, I’m rubbish, aren’t I?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, walking in from the kitchen holding two mugs. ‘You’ve been staying at mine all the time. I don’t know why you even bought milk… you’re never here. And when did Harry do a home delivery of croissants?’ He puts his mug on the coffee table, slowly shaking his head.
‘He didn’t, I brought it home from work, ages ago.’ I sigh. ‘It’s been such a horrible, horrible day.’ I hear my voice fading as I try not to cry.
As always, Alex instinctively knows how I’m feeling, what I need, and gently puts his arm around me. I know I should pull away, but I’m so emotionally drained after today I don’t have the energy.
‘I’m so sorry, darling. Can you ever forgive me?’ he murmurs.
‘I don’t know. At the moment I’m just upset, disappointed. I thought you were different.’
‘I am, I promise you.’
‘I need to work it all out in my head, but I’m so tired.’ I lean my head on his shoulder, and in spite of these fresh insecurities, the stabbing doubts, it feels good, and I close my eyes.
‘Everything I do is to make you happy.’ He sighs. He keeps talking, soft, honeyed tones in my ear, telling me he’ll look after me. ‘I’ll keep you safe,’ he whispers, and kisses my head, then moves to my lips, and in the end I find it impossible to resist. Soon he’s undressing me gently, saying over and over how sorry he is about everything, and I melt into him. My shabby old sofa suddenly feels like luxury velvet, and for just a little while the world goes away.
‘From that first night we met, when we talked about the kind of dog we’d have, the kids, the kind of life we wanted, I knew you were the one for me,’ Alex is saying.
‘You must have felt the same about Helen.’
It’s about 4 a.m. We’re in bed – my bed – talking everything through.
Alex is leaning on his elbow, head on one hand, his other arm across me. ‘No. It was a long time ago, I was besotted, but it proved to be superficial. What I feel for you goes so much deeper.’ He sighs, and I see a vision of my face in a photograph, and for a moment wonder what he’d do to it if I walked out. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
‘No. Not really,’ I say, shifting the vision from my head. ‘I need to process everything, I always do. I’m ready to ask some questions though,’ I say, because I need to know exactly what the score is so I can decide on what happens next.
‘Okay.’
‘How long were you married?’
‘We were married for two years. We’d only known each other a short time, and it felt like the next step.’
‘And when did she leave?’
‘Almost twelve months ago. It was ten days before Christmas. Everything I already told you about me and Helen is true, I didn’t lie – I just didn’t tell you about—’
‘The marriage – which was pertinent, to say the least.’
‘Yes. I should have—’
‘And the divorce, when is that happening?’ I cut in. I don’t want any more apologies, I want to know where I stand.
‘Soon. We’ve almost completed proceedings and it should all be absolute in a few weeks, a month at the most.’
‘There must be wedding photos, bank accounts, all the things that tie husbands and wives together. You must have actively hidden them from me,’ I say quietly. In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve become the child I used to be, unsure of the person or people I wanted to trust. I’m back to feeling vulnerable, fragile, exposed.
‘I threw anything and everything away that reminded me of Helen and our marriage, it was too painful. All I had, and still have, is one photograph of her taken on our honeymoon.’
‘The one with the pen across her face?’
‘Well, yes… not my proudest moment, but, as I told you, I was hurt and angry. I can’t ever imagine feeling like that about you,’ he says. I feel his lips on mine, and I melt into his kiss, slightly reassured.
I pull away from the kiss, I won’t be distracted for long. ‘So tell me about Helen,’ I say. ‘Not Helen your ex-girlfriend, Helen your wife – and why you were with her yesterday.’ I’m aware I’m inviting him to lash me with the details, but I’m ready to take the pain. I need to know the truth, whatever it may be.
‘Okay.’ He takes a breath. ‘As I told you, she walked out on me twelve months ago and last week she called and asked if we could meet up. I thought it was about money, the settlement, the house—’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah. I… I bought her half off her when she left – she got money and I took over the mortgage.’
‘So your house is the marital home? You bought it with Helen?’
He nods.
‘I assumed Helen had stayed there, like I do. But of course, being your wife…’ I stop to think about the implications. I suppose he had to keep the house status unclear because he hadn’t told me about being married to begin with. But we’ve had sex on every stair, in his double bed, a double bed he presumably shared with Helen.
One of the things that made me fall in love with Alex was that he’d prepared his home so lovingly for a future wife and children. I thought the stuff he’d filled it with was him feathering his nest and that he was waiting for
the right woman to fill it. But finding out that not only has he already done that, but the nest was created by both of them, from the gorgeous colour scheme, to the shower we make love in, is disappointing. They had already made love under that spiky hot water, planned a life and a kitchen together. His home wasn’t bought or made with a future me in mind after all. And now I feel like the other woman.
I try to gather my thoughts, I have so many questions, but I prioritise.
‘So why did she want to meet up?’
He takes another deep breath, it seems the truth is a difficult place for Alex. ‘She wanted to tell me she made a mistake. She asked me if we could get back together…’
‘Oh God.’ My throat constricts as I wait in the silence for more. She clearly hurt him so much when she walked out, but I think of the inked photograph he keeps in his toiletry bag. Does he still have feelings for her? ‘And what do you want, Alex?’ I press.
‘I want you.’
I remember the way Helen had taken his arm in the street, the way he’d got into her car so willingly.
‘Are you absolutely sure? Knowing she wants you back makes me feel insecure, there’s a shadow hanging over us now.’
‘I understand how you feel, and I wish I could say she’ll go away, but I’m not sure what she’ll do.’
I wish he was more reassuring. I’m filled with self-doubt, which has produced this need in me to reclaim him, to make sure he’s still mine. I turn on the bedside lamp. I want to see his face, to look into his eyes.
‘Helen’s always been hard to fathom,’ he says, ‘and for now I think it safest if we both stay out of her orbit.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask. He seems really intense, even a bit nervous.
He looks at me without smiling, his face unreadable. ‘Helen and I are over. And I made it quite clear to her today that I’m not interested, but…’ He pauses. ‘She didn’t take it too well.’
‘But she looked happy enough when I saw you.’ And so did he.
‘It was later, in the car, when she said she still had feelings. But I told her about you… I love you, Hannah.’
