Chapter Nine
BEA
I work the rest of the week, from Sunday through, because if I’m busy, I don’t have to think.
If I’m busy, I don’t have time to get angry.
If I’m busy, I don’t have time to dwell.
While I’m working, I don’t hear Jon’s whispers and sighs on repeat.
It means I’m also not home for the deliveries of his apology flowers.Like that would work on any woman.And the ones delivered to work get recycled into the wards.
I wait a few days before checking my phone. Unfortunately, my plan of putting him off from leaving a voicemail hadn’t worked.
‘This is Bea,’my voicemail message begins.‘Please leave your number after the tone. Oh, unless you happened to be named Jon, and then you can take your pathetic excuse and shove it so far up your own backside it comes out of your throat! Ciao!’
I chose not to go through the reams of voicemails and texts. Instead, I listen to the first few recordings. They’re not especially apologetic.
Seems it was just sex.
Seems he thinks it’d be a good idea for me to think of what I heard in those terms.
Just sex. Ya, thanks, but I caught the audio already.
He also seems to suggest I should have wild monkey sex to exact my revenge... before going back to him.
Because yes, things are apparently that simple.
Tit for tat? My response is to send him another text reminding him we’re through. That what I do no longer concerns him.
But I should never have touched my phone because his attitude has left me so angry and so ill-tempered that I feel unfit for company. I’ve barely been home; I’ve either creeped home in the wee hours or else slept in one of the on-call rooms.
Go home, Bea, you’ll wear yourself out, my colleagues have said, and when I have, I’m out of the flat before Fin even wakes.
Trauma clinics. Scrubbing in wherever I can. I’d sweep the floors if it meant I didn’t have to think about it.
As the week passes, I become angrier. So angry, I can’t even begin to contemplate repeating that I heard my ex-boyfriend cheating on me, never mind discuss it with him. In my mind, I’ve worded a million conversations—from sarcasm and indifference to rage and tears. Who was it and why? From calm dialogue to bouts of rage to silent arguments with him—all inside my head. And I still haven’t picked up the phone, sent him an email, or even posted a hateful rant on his Facebook page.
Because I just don’t know where to go from here. How do I tell people what he did to me?
I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know what to feel, other than angry.
My unfaithful boyfriend. The man I thought I’d marry someday.
The sack of shit.
Then add to my confusion the dreams I’ve been having.
I’ve dreamt of Jon screwing a hundred girls—a harem in the throes of ecstasy at his touch—which is bizarre as, lately, he hasn’t been that good.
And I’ve dreamt of Kit and all his fingering glory. Those dreams have made more sense, but they haven’t always been relegated to night. Images of him touching me and echoes of the things he said send my insides a flutter and my pussy pulsing.
And from the sublime to the ridiculous, I’ve also dreamt about Mr Becker, the consultant—and the boss of the multidisciplinary team I work in—pushing me to my knees as those long fingers that I’ve watched so intently during surgery slide down the zip of his pants.
And it didn’t stop there.
