The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

  But it persists in not co-operating.

  Bloody thing!

  “Okay, what’s wrong? What do we want to do? Stay here all night?”

  I re-open the door, I re-close it, I re-open it again, I shut it again. I give it a bump with my hip and turn the temperature knobs round. Then turn it on and…

  “Right, help me out. I’ve got no intention of putting up with this attitude. Your job is to wash, mine is to clean you occasionally. I have respected our deal. Yesterday, I even rinsed you out with bleach. Now it’s your turn. Switch on… Without making a fuss.”

  I try another twenty times. At least twenty, I’m sure. But it’s useless. Exasperated, I start swearing at it, then banging on it, then kicking and punching it, but nothing – absolutely nothing. The damn thing is completely dead. There’s no way of making it work, it’s decided to ruin my life – it, and all the rest of them! All those with their own demands, each with their own stupid excuses, never caring about the effects of their actions.

  “I mean it! Start now!” I’m shouting at it when two arms strong enough to lift me off the ground grasp me by the waist and drag me away from that hellish thing before one of the two of us ends up in hospital or the repair shop.

  “Let go of me… Let go of me now!” I scream, kicking.

  “Trudy… Trudy, stop it!” orders a determined voice, which I don’t immediately recognize. He puts me down, but my arms are still pinned to my sides.

  Crushed against his chest, I realize that my heart’s beating shockingly fast. Frustrated, I struggle to free myself from that grip – but it has the opposite effect and I find myself even closer to him, as he tries to defuse my assault on the machine using the same authoritative tone.

  “Trudy, that’s enough. Calm down.”

  As soon as I feel his face involuntarily rub my hair, I recognize his scent. It’s Ethan. Of course… Who else could it be?

  “Get your hands off me!” I snap, trying to break free.

  “Start breathing normally and explain to me why you were trying to destroy the washing machine and maybe, if I find your explanation convincing, I’ll let you go.”

  “Ethan…”

  “Yes?” he answers. “I’m waiting, Trudy.”

  “It won’t start! I’ve been trying to get it to work for two hours and it won’t start. I’ve tried everything,” I tell him, breathing hard, “But it won’t start. It’s doing it on purpose, do you understand?”

  Behind my back, he takes my wrists in one hand and holds them tight, then bends down slightly and with the other hand he picks up a cable and dangles it before my eyes.

  Damn! The plug was…

  “It was unplugged, Trudy. It was just unplugged.” My strength abandons me and I let my eyes fall to the floor. Seeing that I’ve calmed down, he decides to release me, and carelessly drops the plug to the ground.

  “Trudy…” he whispers, taking my chin in his hands. “What’s going on?” And he stands in front of me, trying to force me to look up.

  “Nothing,” I mumble, trying to avoid his gaze.

  “Trudy…”

  “Leave me alone. Don’t—”

  “Trudy, look at me.”

  He runs his fingers through my hair and draws me towards him, no longer allowing me to escape, demanding an answer, and when our eyes meet, his grow darker and mine fill with tears.

  “He was with her,” I find myself saying. “He was with that woman again.” I hiccup, and then burst into tears.

  I don’t say anything else, there’s no need.

  He lets me cry, taking me into his arms and leading me up out of the cellar, without asking anything else.

  I don’t look where we’re going, and I only realize that we’re in his flat when he sits me on the edge of a bed that I’ve never seen before. The sheets are dark blue. I caress them with my fingertips, while I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. He goes away and comes back with a tissue that he uses to dry my cheeks.

  “I’ll do it myself,” I protest, my voice still broken from tears.

  “Shhh!” he says gently. His kindness destroys any equilibrium I thought I had reached and tears start flowing down my face again, my mascara staining my cheeks.

  “Look at the state he’s got you into.”

  “I think I got myself into this state,” I admit between sobs, and it’s true. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have allowed him back into my life. Not like that, as if nothing had happened.

  Ethan remains on the carpet, kneeling between my legs, his eyes full of sadness. Unfortunately, I can’t calm down, so he sits on the bed and takes me into his arms, pushing me down onto the mattress with the weight of his body. We lie side by side. My back pressed against his chest, his arms enclosing me and his lips on my neck. Cradled by his body and his hoarse voice, I close my eyes as a new heat sweeps away what is left of the pain. Uncaring, I let myself go between his fingers, which trace the soft fabric of my white blouse to creep into the folds of my skirt. He holds the edges gently to lift them, gradually reaching under my clothes, and when he reaches my hips, his hand slips between my thighs, pulling me towards him with increasingly intimate caresses which become more and more demanding. I let myself be led by the hands which slowly undress me until my clothes are collected on the floor. I offer myself up to his lips – rising up along my back, they dwell languidly on the contours of my chin and finally catch me with a kiss of disarming intensity that erases every memory.

  When he makes me stretch out beneath him, I feel his body rubbing along my back, his hands caressing my breasts and his sex slipping irresistibly into me. He pushes himself inside me uncontrollably and I reciprocate, echoing his every movement. We spend all night like this, seeking each other with the sole purpose of nullifying ourselves, drowning in one another until, embracing, we collapse into the pillows and fall asleep.

  I wake up at dawn and only then do I realize what I’ve done and how irresponsible I’ve been. Ethan notices I’m no longer lying there and sits up, rubbing his eyes. He observes me silently as I dress and prepare to leave.

  “Stay…”

  “No, I’m going home,” I murmur without looking.

  “Why?” he gets up, joining me.

  Seeing him completely naked, I admit, shakes my resolve somewhat, but I try not to show it. “Come back to bed, it’s still early,” he whispers, stroking my cheek.

  “Ethan,” I reject him, moving back a step. “Let’s not further complicate the situation.”

  “More than this?” he asks me incredulously.

  “Exactly!”

  “Will you tell me what the point of running away is?”

  “I’m not running away,” I defend myself. “I’m just doing now what I would anyway in a couple of hours time.”

  “And what do you know about what would happen in a couple of hours?” he protests, visibly upset.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Ethan, listen, I’m not going to start saying ‘I don’t know how it could have happened’ or ‘It was a mistake’ or, worse ‘I must have drunk too much, I wasn’t myself’. I was in shock and, in your own way, you helped me. I’m not angry with you, I’m not angry with myself. It happened because it had to happen. And all things considered, it was quite pleasant.”

  “And all things considered,” he says sceptically, “I thought it—”

  “Spare me the rude jokes. Okay, look, I admit it. It was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the movies. Happy now?”

  He’s no longer just upset – he’s bloody angry, but I don’t give him the opportunity to say anything, because I really want to try to get this over and done with before it’s time for lunch.

  “Ethan, it was wonderful. Believe me, it really was, but that’s not the point. The point is that you have to take it for what it was.”

  “And what was it?” he asks defiantly.

  Why doesn’t he get dressed! Isn’t he cold?
r />   I look down.

  No, he’s not cold.

  “You know very well – a one-night stand!” I specify.

  “Who said that?”

  “Look, I really don’t have time for this shit. I don’t want to be your weekly fall-back.”

  “I never asked you to be!”

  “Then what? Let’s hear it. You’re in love with me?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Are you by any chance looking for a serious and long lasting relationship?”

  “You can’t just go from a one-night stand to marriage,” he protests. “It’s ridiculous!”

  “But we aren’t anything, Ethan. I’ve just come out of a six year relationship, you dream of being a judge at Miss Wet T-shirt contests – please explain to me why we are still having this conversation?”

  “I don’t want our relationship to be ruined just because—”

  “Ethan, what relationship?” I say, to try and bring him back to planet Earth.

  “I haven’t got the faintest idea, okay?” he admits, exhausted by the discussion. “But I don’t want you to start avoiding me. I don’t want to not be able to speak to you any more and, to be honest, I wouldn’t at all mind going out with you sometimes, even just for a chat. Does that really seem so weird?”

  “No,” I agree. “It’s fine with me, but now I need a shower and a handful of painkillers. Go back to sleep, I can take care of myself.”

  I pick up my jacket and get to his front door, but as I’m about to open it I suddenly feel that I must do something – I really can’t just leave him like that. I go back and find him with his head in his hands, sitting on the end of the bed. He lifts his head when he notices my presence and frowns at me, clearly wondering what I want.

  “Look, I… Thank you,” I mutter, a little sharply. “Apart from all the rest, thank you. Yesterday I was…” shaking my head. “Well, you understand,” and I go, closing the door again, this time with a bang.

  I spend the weekend in a kind of vegetative state, dragging myself into the bathroom and the kitchen only in times of extreme necessity. Arriving at work on Monday more or less in the same condition, I spend most of the morning staring at the PC monitor without saying or doing much. The only way of telling the difference between me and a jellyfish would be the hairstyle.

  I think about everything. Brood. Fret.

  The only result of all this punishing of my neurons is the realization that I have totally lost control of my life. I can’t manage my career, my emotions or my love life. I’m losing altitude and preparing for the final splat.

  The phone rings, and I pick up the receiver hysterically. “Hello? Who? Oh, Rupert…”

  What’s happened now? I wonder. Rupert, on the other end, tells me about the proposal from RBS. I don’t think I can take much more, especially of this. And without even listening to him, I start browsing through the blog of Turiff’s local newspaper, finally discovering what that unusual swelling on Mrs Harvey’s lips is due to. What a tart!

  “Trudy, did you hear me?”

  “Erm… No, sorry, could you say it again?”

  “What’s the matter with you? You sound a bit distracted.”

  “No, no… There’s just a lot of noise in the office. Nothing to worry about. Please, continue.”

  He snorts.

  “I said, I have discussed the issue at length and we’ve managed to find an agreement. They’ll send a temporary substitute to Turiff so you can come back starting next Wednesday.”

  Ah… That’s what Karen had said. It had totally slipped my mind.

  “So? Aren’t you happy? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  And so I’m going home. Isn’t that great?

  “Bear in mind that there will be a lot of work waiting for you. Yes, I’ve added a thing or two I’d like to talk to you about. If you have nothing better to do, you can start browsing through the balance sheets of two or three companies that…”

  Yeah… Back to my old life. Friends that I never see, a family I never see, a boyfriend who’s seeing another woman… Yippie!

  “Then there’s Robert. Have I already talked to you about Robert’s proposal?”

  I scroll up the paper’s homepage and I find myself staring at the front cover of the last issue. They’re still talking about the heiress. Her relatives have pulled out the heavy artillery – apparently they’ve sought the advice of a psychologist. The swine!

  While I skim through the article, a preposterous idea begins to form in my mind. I re-read it. I read it a third time more carefully, then I begin to browse through the archive. Everyone agrees that Mary Angela Cox’s children would be willing to give up their attempts to have her declared mentally incapable if she decides to let a consultant manage her assets. They have said it again and again. It’s the excuse they use to fend of insinuations from the press. As good a way as any to make people think they’re not at all the sinister opportunists that they actually are. And who better than a bank to look after the management of a large investment portfolio?

  I look for something on it and… Mmm… Property, funds, marriage… No. No. Not here. I’ll have to look on another page. Let’s try in last week’s news.

  “So we could evaluate the alternatives and launch on the stock market in the textile sector, don’t you think? Trudy… Trudy? Are you listening?”

  “Sure! The stock market,” I say, echoing his words uncomprehendingly. “And then what?”

  I pretend to be listening, whereas I only have eyes for the online newspaper I’m reading.

  “Well, as I was saying…” continues Rupert, launching into one of his mind blowing theories on alternative investments.

  Just as I’d thought.

  According to the journalist Tom Bates, the rumours about the delicate situation in the Cox family have got everybody in a stir: banks, co-operatives, associations and private individuals have all showed up at the widow’s house with the most bizarre proposals, hoping to get her to sign a contract. She fended them off for as long as she could and then barricaded herself in the house, and since then, to escape the continuous attention from the legal representatives of this or that banking group, she has drastically curtailed her social life and maintains the strictest confidence about her movements. Even her own relatives complain about finding it difficult to get in touch with her.

  I get the feeling I’m about to do something stupid.

  “So, basically, is Monday okay with you instead of Wednesday? Like I say, it would be easier, especially if you plan to attend the meeting with Roger.”

  “Monday? What? What am I supposed to be doing on Monday?” I ask vaguely, not having the slightest idea what he’s talking about.

  “Come back to London, Trudy!”

  “I can’t come back on Monday.”

  “Well, then Wednesday – but try to read all the papers before meeting the Uk Magazine group.

  “Rupert, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it for Wednesday either.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There’s something I’ve got to sort out first and I think I have just found a way to avoid having to sell the branch, but I need time. Call head office, and warn them. Ask them to wait for the six months contract to expire. By then, I guarantee you that even if I haven’t been able to make the accounts square, they’ll have a cheque with five zeros on it signed by Richard Marshall on my desk.”

  “I’m starting to wonder whether the smell of all that fertilizer up there is going to your head?”

  “Rupert, I’m serious.”

  “Okay, whatever,” he mutters. “Whatever you want. Stay there nibbling the bloody heather, but if I have a coronary, it’s all your fault, remember that. Three orphans on your conscience!”

  “Rupert… You don’t have any children,” I remind him. “I’ve got to go, I’m busy.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you soon,” I say

  Just as I’m hanging up he says, “Trudy, tell me…” he mur
murs thoughtfully. “You’re not starting to like it up there are you?”

  To like it? What, Turriff? This flea bitten hole forgotten by our Lord?

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” And I hang up on him.

  Okay.

  First step taken.

  Now what?

  I make a few calls and I get the address of Mary Angela Cox’s estate. I write it down on a sheet of paper, fold it up and put it in my wallet. It’s crazy, I know, but if I manage to succeed where others have failed, it’ll bring into our coffers – if you’ll allow me to use a technical term – a shitload of cash. And with all that cash, and a bit of luck and two or three targeted investments, I can keep the branch open, and renew all the employees’ contracts. It’s a slim chance, but it’s worth a try.

  I leave the office with my brain overheating, but then I remember a final thing that needs finishing off.

  “Initiating annihilation protocol.”

  I retrace my steps, sit down, open my inbox and write the following message:

  Subject: Breaking news

  From t.watts@me.com

  To: Horace_H45@icloud.com

  Dear Horace,

  I know, I should tell you to your face, but at the moment I’m really busy with work. There are so many important issues to be solved. Transactions. Invoices. Things I don’t want to bore you with. But I urgently need to talk to you about something that’s really important to me. Horace, believe me, I’m mortified. I don’t know how it could have happened. I sincerely hope I don’t hurt you. I know how you important I am to you, and I’ve really felt the strength of our relationship in these last few days, and, I assure you, the last thing I’d ever want would be to hurt you, but I can’t keep quiet. No. My conscience requires me to be honest. Horace, I don’t want to beat around the bush, I’ll be direct, last night I cheated on you with the guy you met in my garden. At first, I didn’t want to, but it was impossible to resist. He is so… Well you saw him, I’m sure you understand perfectly what I mean. And then he’s so… well-equipped. A real force of nature. Just think, at first I thought I was having hallucinations, but then I… how can I put it? I probed with my hand and let me assure you that…