Chapter 27
GREG
‘Geordie, you’re piling the weight on, man.’
Thank Christ we’re only working a half day because these two are getting on my last nerve. I usually enjoy their ridiculous banter during our quiet time but maybe I just need a break. And I’ll be getting one as our two-week shutdown starts today.
‘You think I’m getting fat?’ Geordie answers, rubbing his rotund belly from across the corner of the workshop I use as an office. Josh is right; he is getting bigger. Mainly because after work, he usually hits the pub for a few pints. He once told me if I was married to his missus and had fathered four kids, I’d be hiding out at the pub till they were all a’bed, too. Needless to say, I’ve never spoken of the fact that Scotland has more chance of winning the World Cup than I do of having four kids.
But I digress. His belly is probably ninety percent beer rather than fat.
‘Aye,’ answers Josh, looking up from the newspaper spread out on the workbench. I can’t believe I’m paying these fuckers to sit around and snipe. ‘You’re getting as fat as fuck.’
‘Well, that’s your girlfriend’s fault,’ he says, trying to curtail a grin. ‘See, every time I go ’round your house to shag her, she makes me a sandwich after. She really should stop doing that,’ he adds, giving in to a fucking great smile.
‘Ah, you’re a tosser,’ Josh answers, taking the bait.
‘And a Merry Christmas to you, too!’ crows Geordie.
‘I’m thinking of changing your names,’ I grumble, glancing up from my laptop. You’ll be Bungalow Bill, Geordie, on account of you havin’ nothin’ upstairs. And you,’ I say pointing to Josh, ‘I’m gonnae call you Dim Shady.’
‘C’mon, boss,’ Geordie cajoles. ‘Is it no’ time to pack up?’
Christmas Eve is a half day, but not only that, it’s our Christmas party of sorts. As well as a turkey and a ham for their families as a Christmas gift, I’m also taking the pair of them to the local pub for a liquid lunch.
‘Aye, aye. Keep your hair on,’ I grumble, forgetting for a moment that Geordie is mostly bald. Also the fault of fathering four, he’d said.
‘Hey, boss, what do you call Santa’s helpers?’ Josh suddenly asks. I look up witheringly, waiting for him to enlighten me. ‘Subordinate Clauses,’ he answers with a laugh.
I smile, unable to match his liveliness
‘What’s the matter?’ Geordie interjects. ‘You’ve a face like a well-skelped arse.’
‘I’ve just had a bad night’s sleep, that’s all. Why don’t you get yourselves away,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll meet you down the pub in a while.’
They don’t have to be asked twice, grabbing their coats, the door banging closed in their haste.
I finish updating an accounting spreadsheet, then decide to check my emails one more time. I doubt there’ll be anything pressing, but I’ve decided I’m putting myself on a phone and internet ban for the next two weeks. Cold turkey because I can’t count the number of times I’ve picked up my phone to call Isobel or opened my laptop to google her—to find her on social media.
But I just can’t bring myself to.
It’s not like there haven’t been other women since my divorce, but there’s never been anyone close to capturing my heart like she has. And it’s dangerous territory. Thinking of her floods my body with the good stuff—warmth, endorphins, serotonin, and dopamine. But then I remember all the things she deserves that I’ve no way to give her.
It’s like a bruise that’s constantly poked.
I think I might be turning into a masochist because it doesn’t stop me from thinking about her.
I can’t do anything about my brain—I can’t stop thinking about her, but I can choose how I deal, how I react to those thoughts. Or not. And by that, I mean I don’t call. It’s like I’m an addict, and she’s my drug of choice. I’m still coming down and fighting the craving, just promising myself if I can resist her, if I can just survive one more day without the taste or sound of her, I’ll hang on to my sanity.
One day at a time, right?
But that’s in my waking hours. In my sleep? That’s another whole other deal. I’m pretty sure I created a dream life with her in the one place I can fulfil both of our fantasies. I dream about us drinking coffee and reading the morning papers in bed. We’re on holiday, lying on a terrace in the sun or drinking cocktails around the pool, watching the light play across her pale skin. And I dream about bending her over the sofa. Of taking her out hiking and fucking her up against a rock face.
I dream of going home to her, to the sounds and smells of domesticity.
I dream of her holding our child in her arms.
And that is the cruellest dream of all.
