‘Gull, no,’ she said, pulling away. ‘You’re still married.’
Colour flared in his cheeks. ‘But what about us?’
She stared at him in bemusement. ‘There is no us, there has never been an us. The entire time I’ve known you, you’ve been married to Lucia.’
‘You’ve felt it, though,’ he said, his eyes locked onto hers.
She could not look away, they both knew there was a spark between them which went further than friendship, an attraction which had grown day by day, a yearning to spend time with each other. Yet, she had suppressed these feelings because of the loss of her husband and the gold band on Gulliver’s left hand, which she now realised was missing.
‘Leave me alone, Gulliver,’ she said.
‘No, not until we’ve spoken properly.’
‘What if I don’t want to talk?’ she said. ‘You might have made decisions about your future?—’
‘Please, Tabs,’ he interrupted, and she heard real anguish in his voice. ‘Is it because of Blake?’
‘Blake?’ she asked, bemused. ‘What has this to do with my husband?’
‘Grief is a terrible emotion, it can linger for years, and I respect the fact you’re probably still in love with the man you lost?—’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she snapped, fury rising in her, wild, untethered, born of the pent-up emotions of weeks.
‘Death is always a shock,’ said Gulliver.
‘Is that what you think?’ she exclaimed, her voice rising. ‘You saved me from my grief, the terrible tragic young widow on whom you took pity and gave a new life?’
‘No, I?—’
‘Because you didn’t,’ she snarled. ‘My family saved me: my sisters, my parents and my friends. They were the people who picked up the pieces when I discovered the truth about Blake. They sat with me, they held me, let me cry, let me scream at his deception and, when I was more in control, they helped me through my grief. Not you.’
‘Motor neurone disease is a terrible condition?—’
‘Blake didn’t die from motor neurone disease.’
‘You said?—’
‘He was diagnosed with it,’ she said, ‘but it didn’t kill him.’
‘What did?’
‘He did,’ she replied, her hands shaking. She rarely talked of her husband’s betrayal, of his lies and of the decision he had made alone.
‘Tabs, I don’t understand,’ said Gulliver, but he was white-faced.
‘Three weeks after his diagnosis had been confirmed, he was due to go on a skiing holiday with the group of friends he’d had since his teens. They did it every year. He told me he planned to go, even if he wasn’t well enough to ski or snowboard, he could at least be there. He planned to tell them his diagnosis. He kissed me goodbye and left. I never saw him again.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘He lied to his friends and said he had a business trip he couldn’t get out of, but instead he travelled to a clinic inSwitzerland, where he chose to die before the disease overtook his body. The first I knew was when a letter arrived from the clinic explaining they would keep his ashes but eventually I would be able to reclaim them. There was nothing from him.’
Gulliver stared at her in disbelief.
‘I was a widow,’ she said. ‘He hadn’t trusted me enough to support his decision, he went to his death alone. I will never forgive myself, because somewhere deep in my heart I will always feel I failed him. So, excuse me for not wanting to become involved in your childish theatrics with Lucia. I’m sorry she betrayed you with another man, there is nothing worse than being lied to, but at least she is alive. Blake chose death over love.’
She ran across the room, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and turned to go, but as she did, she felt Gulliver’s hands on waist. He pulled her into an embrace and kissed her. His lips were soft, but their contact with her own was firm, determined, and for a second, she yielded, kissing him back, gently at first, then with a growing intensity as the molten swirl of attraction she had been denying to herself rose within her. But then Blake’s face swam before her closed eyes, his final kiss goodbye, and she pushed Gulliver away.
‘No,’ she screamed, her voice tearing in anguish. ‘No, leave me alone.’
