I can’t sleep. Nothing unusual about that these days, but this time it feels different. This time it’s not the usuallump of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach keeping me awake as I roll and toss and imagine the empty, yawning gulf that constitutes my so-called future. This time my head is spinning with confused and tangled possibilities, with half-formed ideas and the chaos of wondering what’s next.
It’s all Ewan Lord’s doing. He unravelled me with effortless ease, held me while I sobbed all over him, then left after an hour or so.
We chatted, polished off the bottle of wine, then I made some tea for us both. He told me about his work as a civil engineer. His specialist niche is sports stadia, and he tends to get roped in at the early stages of most of the major sporting events anywhere in the world. His current project is in Qatar, laying the groundwork for the 2022 FIFA World Cup. It sounds so much more exciting than my boring job with Em See Squared.
I dreamed once of being self-employed, of owning my own graphic design consultancy. I’d thought perhaps I could spend a few years working for another outfit, learning the industry, making contacts, saving what I could. In the past Ed and I always needed the money. We relied on my regular salary coming in to pay the bills. It would have been a while before I might have felt ready to leave the safe haven of Em See Squared and take the risk of starting out on my own. But with Ed to support me, maybe I could have done it. Now, alone, it all looks too daunting.
Or does it? I wonder what Ewan’s take would be. And even more incredibly, I actually want to know what he thinks.
The irony is, I have more money now than I ever imagined. I could easily afford to take the plunge. Every cloud and all that, Ed’s insurance has left me with no financial worries. I had no inkling that he’d laid down such generous provisions for me. I still can’t believe it. I wasn’t short of advice about what to do with the money—thebank, Helen, colleagues, all had their suggestions to make. Investments, buy an annuity (whatever one of those is), blow it on an expensive holiday. My head was a whirl, so I did nothing. The bulk of the money is still languishing in my bank account.
* * *
I wake up feeling better, more refreshed than I can recall feeling for months. A weight has lifted, and as I clean my teeth in the bathroom I realise what that was. Guilt. I no longer feel guilty, no longer responsible. I’m finding some perspective. What happened was cruel, but the awful, crushing burden of self-blame is receding. Not quite gone, not yet. I’ve hugged the grief to me for too long to be entirely free of it with just a few well-chosen words, but it’s easier now.
I miss Ed. I expect I always will. But I’m ready to start moving on. My first move will be to say thank you to Ewan Lord for talking some sense into me. And I’ll ask him what he thinks about me starting my own business.
I hesitate in front of his door. I’ve been into the house next door a few times, to chat with Caroline. We shared a coffee occasionally, and once or twice she accepted parcels for us that I would go round to collect. Now, as I lift my hand to knock, I have no idea what I’ll say when Ewan answers.
He’s in. I saw him get into his car earlier and drive off, but he was back within half an hour. He unloaded some shopping bags and went inside. The car is still here so that means he is too. I rap on the door before I lose my courage, though why I should be afraid of Ewan I’m not certain. Not now.
The door opens. He smiles. He has dimples in his cheeks—quite breath-taking. I’m struck again by thecolour of his eyes, a deep, dark brown that compliments his almost-black hair.
“Faith. I thought it might be you. Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please. I wanted…” I realise the business advice was a cover story, my excuse to come here. In truth I’m not entirely sure what it is I want from him. Just his presence, his company seems to be enough.
He gestures me to follow him and heads back down his hallway. I trot along in his wake, my eyes fixed on his tight bum beautifully showcased in his casual denim Levis. I follow him into his kitchen. The shopping bags are on the table, the fridge door standing open.
“I have the makings of breakfast. Can I offer you anything?” His smile is pleasant enough, but my overwhelming impression is that he is one devilishly gorgeous man. How did I miss that fact last night? Caroline was lucky to have him. I always thought so.
Christ, where did that come from?I never approved of their relationship, the specifics of it that is. And I was in love with my husband, I would never have so much as looked at another man.
“Are you alright, Faith?”
“What?”
“You look a little… odd. Would you like to sit down?”
“Er, yes. Thank you.” I plonk myself on one of the chairs beside his kitchen table and stare at him.Shit, he’s beautiful.
“Faith?”
“What?”I fancy him. I fancy this man whose girlfriend I…
The realisation hurtles through my head, ricocheting around my skull. Impossible. Inappropriate. This absolutely cannot be happening. But it is, or at least it seems to be. I try to sweep together the dregs of any good sense and reason I might still lay claim to. I didn’t do anything to Caroline, her death was an accident, not my doing at all. I do now accept that. Any feelings I mighthave, or imagine I have for Ewan are just the conjurings of my lurid sub-conscious. Yes, that must be it. We shared a traumatic experience. It’s natural, surely, that I might turn to him now. He’s the one person in the entire world who shares my grief.
“Bacon sandwich? Tea, perhaps? Or do you prefer coffee in the mornings?” His voice is friendly, light. He doesn’t sound to be exactly grieving. Me neither, but there can be no other realistic explanation for this madness.
It’s not just my head playing tricks. My body is too. My pussy is damp, that familiar sensation of need, of burgeoning arousal that Ed could elicit with his smile, his touch, a few dirty suggestions. My libido has been dormant for months but there can be no mistaking its re-emergence now.Holy shit.
“I need to go.” I leap to my feet and head for the door.
“But you just got here.”
I stop in the doorway, turn to him, my expression probably bordering on frantic by now. “Yes, but I, I forgot something. Something I need to do.”
“Bollocks! Get back in here and sit down.”
