I don’t sleep. Terry still hasn’t contacted me. He won’t. Earlier, I’d called Trey and told him what happened. He said I needed totake some time off. Take a break. Get out of the city to clear my head.
Knowing I won’t be able to sleep, I get up and start throwing clothes into a case. There’s no planning, no consideration for what I might need. Jeans, leggings, too many panties. If I keep moving, I won’t think.
After filling it to the brim, I wrestle with the zipper, then lug it to my car and throw it in the trunk. I climb into the driver’s seat and plug Aviemore into my GPS. In nine hours, I will see one of my closest friends. After turning the key, I pull out and go off in search of support.
Heavy rain has been hammering down since I crossed the border into Scotland. The journey snakes and skids. Why the fuck did Katie have to escape all the way up here? Could she not have gone to Wales or something?
After what feels like a thousand miles of twisting dark roads, I turn into the driveway to Eden House. The road, if you can call it that, is filled with holes. Blackness surrounds me. The eerie mansion sits at the end of the road, with only two small lights at the front door. I know Katie is staying in a cottage around the back of the house, so I carry on.
The small cottage, painted green, sits in a quaint garden with a meandering path to the front door. Lamps dot the house and gardens, highlighting pockets of green. I pull up and stop at the gate, the rain still bouncing off the roof.
Once I’ve grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, I open the door and make a run for it. I arrive at the front porch, drenched but alive.
Water pools in my shoes. Candles flicker in the windows, and as I peer in, I see Katie sitting on the sofa watching TV. I batter on the door to be heard above the rain. My friend springs up, shock etched across her face. She appears moments later as the door opens.
I run into her arms, and she cradles me while I cry, “He’s left me. He said he needs children in his life. He needs to be a father, and he needs to be with someone who can give him that.”
“Oh, honey,” she says softly. “Let’s get you inside, and you can tell me all about it.” I step over the threshold, and for the first time in months, I finally feel safe.
Chapter eighteen
Terry
Ben sits at the breakfast bar sipping a beer. He glances at me as I enter the kitchen, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Going somewhere?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “This is the first time you’ve looked fucking presentable since you arrived.” He snorts, then goes back to his drink. Dickhead.
“Just for a drink,” I respond, but don’t look him in the eye. I can’t. If I do, he’ll see the guilt written all over my face, the kind that gnaws in the dark. I don’t need another layer on top when he volunteers his opinion on what I’m doing.
“With who?” he prompts. His voice is level but firm, demanding an answer to his question. His eyes narrow as he focuses on me, applying more pressure to tell him what I’m up to.
“A friend,” I say evasively. He pauses mid-sip then places the brown glass bottle onto the marble worktop. He turns to look at me, a curious look on his face.
“Need a lift?” he asks. “This is my first drink, so I’m okay to drive. Then you can have a few drinks.”
“No, I’m good,” I mumble. The last thing I want him to know is that I’m dating. Well, not exactly dating? looking for a womb for my offspring is probably a better way to put it. Even saying it in my head sounds obscene.
Two weeks ago, when I walked out on Amy, I had nowhere to go. I’d checked into a local hotel for a few nights while I got my bearings. Ben had called me the day after I left, having spoken to her. He told me she had gone to Scotland to stay with Katie for a while then offered me a room at his house for me to stay in until I got sorted or went home.
Not that I can go home. Not after what I said. Not after watching her face crumble as I packed. And going backward wouldn’t fix the break. Amy and my time together has ended. I’ve accepted that.
His huge bungalow sprawls out across an acre of garden. There are six bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms, a vast kitchen/diner, two living spaces, an office, and a game room.
A few years back when Ben and Bex finally got together properly, they moved here within months. Bex was already unwell, and their city apartments were not suited to her worsening condition. It had been perfect when she was restricted to a wheelchair. She was able to move around freely through the wide doors and empty spaces.
I always thought Ben knew how things would progress. He had always been planning for the end, even from the beginning. I suppose he can’t help it in his line of work?he had more knowledge than anyone of what to expect.
The house is identical to the day Bex died. Everything is as she planned it. Bright colors cover every wall, and there is an abundance of pots of potpourri. With the stark white furniture and sleek kitchen, it has this odd appearance of beingminimalistic but cluttered. Bex’s picture is in every room?she is still very much here. This is her home.
Sometimes I catch Ben staring at a photo of her when he thinks no one is watching. Maybe that’s what love looks like when you’ve run out of chances. The one that got away, and a hope never to be rekindled.
“Where are you meeting your friend?” Ben says, interrupting my thoughts. “Is he someone you recently met? You haven’t mentioned anyone.”
He emphasizes the wordhe, and I nod but say nothing. I’m not telling him I’m meeting a woman. He’ll be furious. He was livid when I told him why I left my wife. His words had been honest and direct, and they cut me to the bone.
“Fuck’s sake, Terry,” he’d snarled. “Amy can’t help the situation any more than you can. Are you really going to throw away a marriage like yours over something that may never happen? You’re in your fifties with a woman who loves you completely. An amazing woman at that.” He glared at me in disgust. “Take a few days to think about it. Then fucking grovel. I know you’re struggling with it all. But please, think twice. Finding a love like yours isn’t easy. Would you rather have the woman you love or a woman you’re using?”
“You’re fucking one to talk,” I retort. “You’re not exactly the epitome of a perfect husband. How many times did you and Bex fuck behind Kelsey’s back? How much time did you spend fucking around and making the wrong decisions? Look where you ended up. Alone.”
Once again, words come out sharper than I intend, too cruel against someone I care for. The lowest blow I could make. The moment they leave my mouth, I hate myself a little more.
