His Other Lover

I
’m so tired by the time I get back into bed that I don’t know where to put myself. I’ve reached a level of exhaustion where the room is swimming slightly and it feels a little like I’m walking on enormous lumps of cotton wool. Sliding noiselessly under the duvet next to Pete, I sink gratefully down into the warmth and, finally, close my eyes. I’ve been crying so much it’s as if I’ve sandpapered them red raw. They ache on the inside.

I almost brained myself a second ago, creeping back into our bedroom and trying not to disturb Pete. Unfortunately I tripped over a picture frame that we haven’t got round to hanging back up after the break-in and stubbed my toe on the edge of the bed. It really hurt and made me yelp, but he didn’t wake up.

Earlier we were lying in bed talking before we went to sleep…well, before Pete went to sleep. He was remarking on how much damage the burglars had done in such a comparatively short space of time, probably mere minutes. I didn’t say much to that and, misinterpreting my silence, he reached out and squeezed my hand in what I think was meant to be a reassuring “I’m here” sort of way. Then he started to snore.

I haven’t found it so easy. Even now, when I’m desperately tired, I can’t get comfy. I can’t switch off.

Scrunching my eyes a little tighter I try to breathe deeply, focusing on emptying my head of horrible thoughts…but I can’t. My brain is still blindly buzzing, like a bee trapped in a bottle.

Eventually I try to think about something happy and relaxing instead. A picture of my mum, my sister and me having a picnic on a beach pops into my head. God, life was simple as a child. I think about us just skipping around on the sand, laughing, and Mum watching us happily—but then thinking about Mum makes me want to cry again.

I want to get up now and ring her, confess everything, so someone knows what I’ve done. But I can imagine her pity and horror, her saying “Oh you poor, poor little thing…I’ll be there just as soon as I can,” but that would ruin her holiday and she so needs this break. I know that I won’t tell her, not tonight, not tomorrow. Apart from anything else, it’d make it all real.

I still have a lot of tidying up to do tomorrow anyway. I found a small shard of glass embedded in the bottom of my shoe when I was walking through the hall earlier, even though I’ve hoovered thoroughly.

Pete was simply speechless when he got home from work and surveyed the damage. It’s difficult to prepare someone for something like that over the phone, even though I tried. I’d explained how no room had been left untouched and how it had been a very thorough job, but he was still visibly shocked. He’d been especially gutted when he spied the elephant lying on the carpet in the sitting room, a snapped-off tusk lying miserably next to it.

“I can’t believe it,” he said incredulously. “They’ve even broken Bert. The bastards.” He’d crunched over the cracked CD cases, mashing flowers from a broken vase into the rug en route.
“Who could do something like this? Don’t they ever stop to think about the fact that all this stuff is someone else’s memories, their lives?” He’d held Bert up to me sadly and said, “D’you remember that funny little guy who made him, the one with no teeth?”

I hadn’t been able to say anything; I’d just nodded dumbly, trying not to let myself cry. I didn’t trust myself to speak anyway.

He’d set Bert down carefully and shaken his head slowly. “How can someone be so evil? It’s just mindless damage! I hope they get what they deserve—the fuckers.”

We’d stood there and looked around our living room: smashed photo frames, ripped cushions, cupboard doors forlornly flapping open with the contents spewing out over the carpet. When we started to move from room to room, he gasped at each one. In the bathroom there were open bottles rolling on the tiles and dribbling puddles of shampoo on to the floor, squirts of sun cream up the walls and over the mirror, reams of loo roll festooning the shower. In our bedroom, clothes were strewn over the bed, the drawers upended, books and magazines flung wildly around, pictures at drunken angles.

“How could anyone just wreck everything with no thought for how much hurt it would cause?” Pete had said in disbelief.

And at that, I
had
cried. I hadn’t been able to help it. I’d done a big gulping sob and tears had started to stream down my face. “Oh, don’t!” Pete had begged as he rushed over and pulled me into his arms, hugging me fiercely. “It’s just stuff. All that matters is that neither of us were hurt.”

That had just made me cry even more. He had to hold me, make gentle shushing noises and rock me like a baby until I calmed down.

The memory of Pete holding me so sweetly makes my heart
thud painfully as I glance over at him lying right on the other side of the bed. There’s a huge gap between us and he has taken practically all the duvet. I shiver slightly and wriggle over, reaching out for him. He flinches in his sleep as my cold feet touch his leg but doesn’t protest as I wrap myself round him and huddle up for some warmth. We lie like that for a moment or two and then he shifts uncomfortably and turns over. I turn over too, facing away from him, but he reaches out for me as he always does and draws me toward him. We fit together and he sighs happily as he sinks back into deep sleep.

For as long as we’ve been together he has always liked to go to sleep with us hugging. It took a bit of getting used to, but now I don’t drop off unless he
is
draped over me.

The first night we slept in the same bed together I instinctively rolled away when he switched the light off, as that was what I’d experienced with all other blokes. Pete had flicked the light back on and said in amazement, “What are you doing?”

I’d been a bit confused by that and said, “Er, going to sleep. Why, what are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just wondering why you’ve shot over to the furthest side of the mattress. Do I smell or something?”

I’d blushed and mumbled “No!,” all embarrassed.

Pete had laughed good-naturedly and said, “Well, come here then!” So I’d snuggled into his open arms gratefully, my heart melting.

And that’s how it’s been ever since.

I tried to describe it recently to my younger sister, who was having bloke trouble. She’d spent about an hour snuffling into a tissue that she just wanted to meet the man who
was
right for her. Was that too much to ask?

“I just feel like it’s never going to happen,” she said desperately as I stroked her hair and she started to wail again. “I mean, I’m twenty-two! I can’t keep getting it wrong, I’m running out of time! It won’t be long before I start getting saggy and
no one
will want me.” I’d ignored that and tried to think of something positive to say. After all, her boyfriends always seemed perfectly nice to me and I couldn’t really see what the problem was.

“Well, you could just…” I began gently.

“Don’t tell me to put up with Jack! Just don’t!” She’d sat up fiercely and looked warningly at me. “You don’t understand. I just can’t be with someone who doesn’t get
why
I need to do this.”

“But you’re talking about a very big change here, Clare,” I tried to reason, offering her a fresh tissue. “You’ve got to admit that not many people would want to give up studying law to be a…salsa instructor.” I’d bitten the inside of my lip to try and stop myself smiling. It really wasn’t funny; she already had enormous student loans.

She’d waved the tissue away and reached crossly for the Revels, shoving four in at once.

“I hate these,” she said mutinously. “Don’t buy them again.”

“But it’s fun…not knowing if you’re going to get a coffee or a toffee or a…”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m so excited I’m going to wet myself. Anyway, we’re talking about me and Jack. I just don’t see what’s wrong with me wanting to, to explore life more. To get out there…to—”

“But in fairness, Clare,” I’d interrupted, “he didn’t say you
couldn’t
be a tango teacher…”

“Salsa!”
she exploded through a mouthful. “It’s sodding
salsa
! Not tango! They are two completely different things!”

“He didn’t say you couldn’t teach salsa,” I continued soothingly, “he said he didn’t understand why you wanted to, but if it was important to you, it was important to him.”

“Exactly!” Her eyes blazed. “Don’t you see what is so wrong with that?”

I’d hesitated: the simple answer was no, I didn’t.

“If the man I’m with can’t understand
why
I need to do something, if he doesn’t
totally
get what makes me tick, if we’re not
completely
on the same wavelength, then what’s the point?”

I sighed inwardly and felt about a hundred. She had a lot to learn. Pete’s and my puppy, Gloria, trotted in. I scooped her up and began to tickle her tummy.

“How did
you
know Pete was The One?” she demanded.

I shrugged. “I just knew. That’s the thing, you just do. You’ll know when it happens to you.”

She shot me a cross look. “Don’t be so patronizing.” Then she was quiet for a moment and stared into space before adding in a smaller voice, “But
what
did you just know? I don’t get it.”

I sighed and tried to think. “We just get on.”

“I get on with my boss at the restaurant, but I don’t want to shag him. Any more.”

I looked up in alarm and she rolled her eyes. “Joke. But seriously, what did attract you to Pete? I’m not saying he’s not fit or anything, but what made him that little bit different?”

“His laugh and his smile,” I said without hesitation.

She groaned. “God, you two are so sad. I want some more wine.” With that, she’d got up and moodily stomped off to the kitchen.

But it’s true: when we first met, one of the things I was immediately attracted to was this sort of glow around Pete. He had a spark in his eyes and looked lively, hungry for fun. The first
time I saw him he was in a circle of people in a noisy, busy pub. He was telling a story and they were all listening to him eagerly, waiting for the punchline. When it came, the group erupted with laughter, him included, and he just grinned delightedly at all of them. He obviously liked making them laugh and that was, well, very sweet. Then he looked up and caught my eye and I blushed and dropped my gaze. I’ve always been hopeless at flirting like that. Anyway, after a bit he came up to the bar where I was sitting perched on a stool, trying to look alluring and not in fact like I was about to fall off, and asked me if I was someone who was likely to respond to crappy chat-up lines or not.

“Would you,” he wondered as if it were a truly interesting question, “be the kind of girl who could appreciate a truly awful line and laugh, or would you be the kind of girl who would prefer just to politely be asked if I could buy her a drink?”

That would entirely depend on which awful line he chose, I said (I was a bit tipsy—there was a reason why I was staying seated). What lines had he got?

He understood the game immediately and pulled up a stool, asking if he could interest me in a cheeky little number that began with it being my lucky night. I pointed out that whenever a man says that to a girl it is rarely
her
lucky night, it is his, and he is unwittingly revealing that all he wants to do is shag you then leave—and that he is the kind of man who doesn’t get to have sex often at all. (I would never had said that if I was sober. Never.)

He smiled and said he understood perfectly. What about a line that required props then? He could procure an ice cube and attempt to hit it, which would break the ice?

That, I said, would be lovely if he were George Clooney and we were in the Sky bar in LA, but a little ridiculous in the George and Dragon on what was, after all, quite a drizzly, cold night.

Hmm, he said. What about something a little more audacious then? A “let’s not waste time with small talk, let’s just get out of here and go someplace else
right now
…” Not bad, I responded thoughtfully, except he could be an ax murderer for all I knew and, also, any man who doesn’t bother with small talk probably doesn’t bother with foreplay—so no thanks. I remember him smiling and saying that he hadn’t realized sex was in the offing this early in the frame and had I considered playing hard to get?

He almost lost me there. Had I been sober enough I would have taken offense at that, or been unnerved talking about sex with a perfect stranger, but I wasn’t, I was enjoying myself. What about something with humor? I suggested helpfully.

“Make my day, tell me you’re Swedish, single and you’ve got a twin sister?” he offered. I grimaced; absolutely not. If that was his best shot at doing funny, he’d better try doing sweetly romantic.

He pondered this for a moment and said calmly, “You’re the kind of girl I’d like to come home to.” I laughed at this and said that I didn’t mean to be rude but I’d kind of hoped for a little bit more from life than sitting at home knitting and waiting for my bloke to get in from t’mine to eat the rabbit pie I’d made him.

Heck, he said, biting his lip in mock fear, his repertoire was running low. How about a plain and simple “I want to kiss you?,” he went on, because it was true, he very much wanted to.

I stole a look at his gently smiling face, his kind, shiny brown eyes with crinkly bits at the corners that showed he smiled a lot, and felt myself melt a bit. Then I laughed again, a little nervously this time because there was a moment where everything else seemed to stop and go quiet, where we both realized something was starting between us…and said firmly that would never work. Did I look like the sort of girl who went around kissing
random men in pubs for goodness’ sake? Of course not. Anyway it was a really cheesy line, it would never work. It would definitely never work.

It did work though. By the end of the night he’d given me his number and asked me please to call because he wanted to try his first-date lines on me. Purely in the spirit of research, I was to understand.

I left it all of three days before I got in touch and, two days after that, I was sitting in a restaurant opposite him peering at a menu and trying to think of something witty and amusing to say.

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