Authors: Alexandra Potter
‘Is this your ex-wife?’
He nodded, striking a match and bending down to light the candles in a candlebrum that stood in the grate, dripping with years of melted wax. ‘Yeah, Kelly and I. Before we got married.’
‘What happened to the glass?’
‘Smashed.’ He smiled shame-facedly. ‘I can’t remember if she threw it or I did.’ Disappearing into the kitchen, he returned with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two glasses. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Yeah, why not.’ Alcohol would probably put the brakes on her hangover, and anyway, she rather liked the idea of drinking whiskey wearing a pair of leather trousers in a man’s house – Reilly’s house – at three in the morning. Taking the glass, she sipped the brown liquid, enjoying the sensation as it scorched her tongue. She smiled to herself. If Hugh could see her now. She looked down at the picture again, rubbing the dust away with her thumb. ‘How long were you married for?’ Studying the image of Kelly, Frankie was surprised at the feelings of jealousy that stirred within her.
Pouring himself a glass, Reilly put the bottle on the table and flopped down on the sofa, putting his feet up on the table.
‘Less than two years. I’ve been divorced longer than I was married.’
‘Do you miss her?’ As soon as she said it, Frankie knew she shouldn’t. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business.’ She stood the photograph back on the shelf, then changed her mind and lay it on its side.
Reilly watched her for a moment, not saying anything, before leaning forwards and pulling open a drawer underneath the table. Searching through the junk, he eventually found what he was looking for and grabbed a packet of Rizlas and a clear plastic wallet full of pot. ‘Do you miss your ex?’ He licked the sticky side of the Rizla papers and began building a joint.
Frankie hesitated. Her knee-jerk reaction was to scream yes, but something stopped her. ‘I think about him.’ Running her fingers over the rough plaster walls, she walked over to the French windows that had been left open and, with her back to Reilly, looked out into the darkness of the garden, listening to the distant howls of coyotes. ‘I wonder what he’s doing, who he’s with. If he’s missing me.’ She spoke quietly, almost to herself.
‘When did you guys break up?’
‘Oh, about seven weeks, five days and –’ twirling round, she looked down at her watch – ‘coming up for ten hours.’ She smiled and took a gulp of whiskey, watching for Reilly’s reaction. ‘That was supposed to be a joke.’
‘I know.’ Reilly smiled. ‘I’m not that much of a dumb-ass American.’ Grinning sardonically, he twisted the end of the joint and lit it, watching the paper curl and burn into ashes. Putting it to his lips he took a long, satisfied drag. Blowing out the smoke, he held it out towards her. ‘Here, try some of Dorian’s finest.’
It had been years since Frankie had smoked a joint, and she’d forgotten how much she used to enjoy it. Reilly put on a couple of CDs, American bands she’d never heard of before, and they lay around on the sofa, drinking whiskey, smoking, laughing, talking. Time played that sneaky game of pretending to stand still but, while their backs were turned, racing along at breakneck speed. Hour-long CDs started and finished in what felt like five minutes, joints were put out seconds after being lit up, and all the time she and Reilly never stopped talking. Never paused to think of something to say, or suffered the dreaded awkward silence. Frankie couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so comfortable with someone who wasn’t Hugh.
‘So, what do you think of my new trousers?’ Feeling stoned, she couldn’t resist flirting a little. Lifting up one of her legs from the sofa, she turned it from side to side to show them off.
‘You look great.’ He smiled, watching her waving her legs in the air. Frankie was very funny when she was stoned. ‘You always look great . . . Well, maybe not the day we met at the airport.’ He ducked as she threw a cushion at him.
Laughing, she hugged her knees up to her chest, feeling the leather waistband digging into her stomach. ‘They were Rita’s idea,’ she explained, taking a puff of the joint that he passed her. ‘She said I needed to change my image, but I’m still not sure if it’s really me.’ Suddenly aware that she was beginning to gabble, she passed him back the joint. Now she knew why she’d missed so many lectures at university. Her head was beginning to spin.
‘What is you?’
Frankie’s laughter petered out and she looked thoughtful. ‘God, I don’t know any more. For a long time I thought it was having a career, a nice flat, getting married to Hugh . . .’ Sighing, she leaned back on the sofa. Her head felt suddenly very heavy and she let it sink down into the cushion.
‘So why didn’t you?’ Hot ash fell on his T-shirt and he flicked it on to the floor before it burned a hole.
‘Hugh didn’t want to get married, not to me anyway.’ Curling a piece of hair around her finger, she let it slowly unravel. ‘He said he wanted space.’ She giggled. ‘
Space
. What a stupid thing to say.’ She paused, remembering the scene at her birthday, the way she’d felt that night, emotions that she’d thought would never, ever go away. Without warning, tears began to prickle her eyelashes. ‘Why didn’t he just tell me he didn’t love me any more?’ she murmured quietly.
‘Hey.’ Leaning over, Reilly stroked her hair away from her face as a tear fell down her cheek.
Frankie sniffed, feeling embarrassed. ‘Sorry, just ignore me. I didn’t mean to get upset.’ She wiped her face, smearing her mascara down her cheeks. ‘It’s just the alcohol . . . and Dorian and the police and everything.’ A barely black tear trickled off the end of her nose. ‘God, you must think I’m an idiot . . .’
Reilly looked at her small face, pinched and blotchy, and had a sudden urge to put his arms around her. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable. ‘C’mon, you’re gonna get upset sometimes. Breaking up is a shitty business. Someone always gets hurt. This time it happens to be you.’ He squeezed her hand, his fingers lacing between hers. ‘If it’s any consolation, I thought about Kelly for six months, maybe a year. Until one day I woke up and realised I was over her. In fact I’d been over her for a while, I just hadn’t noticed.’
‘But how do you know you’re over someone?’ She rubbed her bloodshot eyes.
‘You just do.’ Leaning forward, he filled their glasses. ‘One day you’ll hear that song you both liked on the radio and it won’t make you cry. You’ll wake up one morning and they won’t be the first thing you think about, or the last thing you think about when you’re falling asleep at night. Their face won’t be the one you see any more when you close your eyes, or in a crowd when you’re walking down a street. And when something makes you laugh, or cry, they won’t be the person you want to share it with.’ Taking the joint from her, he put it between his lips and sucked hard. But it had gone out. ‘You’ll forget their telephone number, maybe even their birthday and your anniversary, but you’ll never forget them.’ Lighting the joint, he inhaled, blowing out a spiral of bluish smoke. ‘Sorry, it’s the dope, it makes me do the whole therapist bit.’ He smiled self-consciously.
Feeling tired, Frankie stretched out on the sofa. ‘So why did you and Kelly finish?’
He shrugged. ‘It just didn’t work out. She wanted someone with a big career, ambition. I used to drive her crazy, messing around in my truck, hanging out, taking a few photos. I was just starting out back then.’ He broke off to squash the roach into the ashtray. ‘She said I needed to grow up, but her idea of growing up meant wearing a suit and working in an office.’ Smiling ruefully, he looked at Frankie. ‘In the end she left me for a guy at work. Some rich lawyer who drove a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes and played golf at the Bel Air golf club.’
‘Hugh plays golf.’ Frankie couldn’t resist interrupting.
‘Is he a lawyer?’
‘No, an estate agent.’ The thought suddenly seemed amusing and she smiled. ‘But he does wear a suit . . . and a tie.’
Her mood swung from sadness to amusement, and she started giggling. Reilly watched her, her face creased with laughter, her hair fanned out across the cushion. Stretching out his hand, he pushed the dark curls away from her eyes, letting his fingers brush across her forehead. Her giggles wound down, like a mechanical toy, and, catching her breath, she lay still for a moment. Looking at him. Anticipating. Wondering what was going to happen next.
‘I need some water.’ Something inside made her break away and sit up. As if there was part of her still loyal to Hugh. Standing up unsteadily from the sofa, she padded towards the kitchen. But an object caught her eye, tucked away in the far corner near the window. It was a small upright piano.
‘Do you play?’ She walked over to it and, lifting up the lid, ran her fingers over the keys. They made a tinkling noise, reminding her of when she was a kid and her dad used to play for her.
‘A little. When I was a teenager I used to fancy myself as a bit of a songwriter.’
‘Will you play something?’
‘Oh, c’mon. It’s late.’ He stretched out across the cushions and lit up a cigarette.
‘Please.’ She stuck her bottom lip out, beseechingly.
How could he refuse? Hauling himself up from the sofa, Reilly walked over to her, easing himself on to the small bench. Running his fingers through his hair, he placed them on the keys and started messing around, intros of old Beatles tracks, a few bars of a Bob Dylan number, a bit of Cat Stevens. She leaned against the piano, watching his hands. Listening.
‘No, come on, seriously.’ Leaning towards him, she removed the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘Play one of your songs.’
He smiled, shaking his head.
‘For me.’
He hesitated. ‘Are you sure about this?’ Despite being stoned, he felt nervous. He hadn’t played his own stuff in years. Not since the divorce.
Frankie nodded, smiling. ‘I’m sure.’
Pausing, he let his hands wander over the black and white keys. For a brief moment Frankie thought he was going to bottle out, before he leaned forward and pressed them down, letting them linger for a moment before his fingers found the next notes. And the next. The opening chords of the song, slowly and gently filled the room and then she heard his voice, low and soft, almost speaking the words.
‘There’s someplace far inside of me,
Only you find,
Feelings far inside of me,
You left behind.’
With each chord, any embarrassment or awkwardness melted away. She watched him in the glow of the lamplight, his broad shoulders hunched over the piano, his hair flopping over his face, and knew she couldn’t fight her feelings for him any longer. Denying them wasn’t going to make them go away. And looking at him right at this moment, she didn’t want them to. Putting her empty glass on the top of the piano, she sat down next to him.
‘Just close my eyes and you take me there,
I just close my eyes and you take me there.’
The last note faded. He raised his eyes to look at her. Her at him. Each blink, every breath, was loaded with What Happens Now? Frankie waited. She knew she was at the edge of some great chasm, balancing precariously, feeling her grip loosening, slipping through her fingers. But she didn’t try to fight it. She wanted to fall.
Unable to stop herself, she moved forward and touched the side of his face. A light brush with her fingertips that was more intimate and thrilling than anything she’d experienced with Hugh during their two years together. She could hardly breathe as she touched the scar above his eyebrow, down the side of his face, over his stubble, which wasn’t prickly but soft, and down towards the corners of his mouth. And then, leaning slowly towards him, she did something she realised she’d been wanting to do for such a long time. She kissed him.
For a second he hesitated, before letting himself fall with her, and, pulling her close, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her to him. Breathing her in. His lips against hers. Tongue against tongue. Eyes closed. Hearts thudding. Deep, long, hungry kisses born out of the lack of any feelings of self-consciousness or embarrassment. Just two people wanting each other. Holding each other. Kissing the life out of each other.
It had been a long time coming.
32
At exactly eleven minutes past six in the morning, Frankie felt the earth move. But this time it didn’t have anything to do with Reilly. Looking at him, lying asleep next to her under the duvet, his naked body wrapped tightly around hers, she still couldn’t believe what had happened between them.
What was happening between them
.
Hers was a jumbled blur of memories – his head nuzzling into her neck, running her hands over the soft skin of his bare shoulders, the clash of notes as he’d pushed her up against the piano, discovering the blue ink of a dragon tattoo partly hidden underneath the hair on his chest, feeling his tongue snaking a line across her stomach, down past her bellybutton. The journey to the bedroom upstairs was a blank, but she remembered tumbling on to the king-size bed, pulling at each other’s clothes – God knows how he’d ever managed to get her leather trousers off, but they’d sure as hell come off, along with his jeans and fiddly, awkward bits of underwear that had got tangled around limbs and ankles. And then they’d been naked.
She’d been naked
. In bed with a man who wasn’t Hugh.