Dirty Bad Wrong(2)

Not again.

Not anymore.

In the early hours, sick of the insomnia, I’d packed a single lowly suitcase while he followed me around, begging and pleading and grovelling for forgiveness. It wasn’t a case of forgiveness. Forgiveness I could manage, after all, all people do stupid things, even the good ones. I’ve known that fact as long as I’ve known my mother… as long as I’ve been old enough to make excuses for her… as long as I’ve been old enough to try and make it all better again.

I could forgive Stuart for his stupid indiscretion but I could never stay. We weren’t blood, not like Mum and me. We weren’t bound by flesh and bone and years of responsibility. Stuart and I were done, just like that. Over.

He’d asked where I was going, like he didn’t know. Work, of course. Keep calm and carry the fuck on; smile through the pain like strong little Lydia always does. Anyway, I had nowhere else to go. Sad but true. One long-term friend from uni in my immediate circle, a couple of acquaintances not worth shit, and my mother back home. I’d have to call on Steph and hope we were still close enough that she’d offer me a sofa until I could get myself straight.

Just stay, Lydia, I’ll move out, I’ll stay on the sofa, anything. Just until you’re settled. Just think about it, Lyddie, you don’t need to do this! I don’t love her!

I turned off my mobile and dumped it in a drawer, then tried again to shove my case out of sight. It was no use. The thing wouldn’t budge, determined to show its big bold face to the world. I gave up and swept the hair back from my eyes, dark, wet strands clinging to my fingers. I was still soaked through from the downpour outside. Cold enough for the chill to break through the numbness, until I was craving my bed at home, the tangle of Stu’s limbs as we snoozed the alarm clock, his sandy hair like a bird’s nest against the pillow.

The hitch in my breath surprised me, the unmistakeable wedge of a lump in my throat. I could hardly recall the sensation, hardly remember the last time I’d cried. I broke for the kitchen on shaky legs, driven by desire to outrace the pain. Maybe I could scald it to nothing with a hot cup of black, burn it away before the itches came back for me. I took out a mug and flicked on the kettle, staring out of the window at the office buildings beyond. My reflection in the glass looked as tired as I felt, sunken eyes peering from sallow sockets. I stepped forward, leaning onto the worktop to check more closely. My eyes appeared even paler than usual, the green of my irises hardly more than a pastel wash, and watery. My eyes were watery.

I tried to choke the hurt down, hawking it back with the grace of an ostrich, unsure of even how to let it out anymore, but all I could see was Stuart; his smile bright with laughter, his clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor.

Flashes of our life jarred my senses. So many promises of forever and ever and ever. The only one who’d ever put me first, before all others. He’d loved me. He promised me so.

I gritted my teeth, but still the tears came, spilling from my eyes faster than I could blink them away. I was helpless against the barrage of sobs, which surprised me almost as much as the cheating. Lydia Marsh is a big girl. She doesn’t cry.

I jumped a clear mile at the touch of a hand on my arm, spinning on instinct to face my attacker. Humiliation piled on like lead as I recognised the dark brown eyes bearing down on me. James Clarke, Chief Technology Officer. Mr goddamn corporate and perfect at everything. I’d been with Trial Run Software Group over a year, and still I only really knew him by reputation. It was common knowledge he worked long hours, but I’d never been in the office at 6am to find out.

I backed away, sniffing out apologies, but his eyes held me steady without a hint of awkwardness.

“Do you take milk?”

I shook my head, wiping my cheeks on a sleeve as wet as my face, praying I wasn’t snotty or blotchy, or both. I watched him finish up my half-made coffee and make one for himself. My shaky fingers rattled against his as he handed the mug over, and he held on an extra heartbeat before he let go. I managed to mumble my thanks and he smiled gently. Then there was quiet, with only the low drone of the refrigerator to fill the silence. James leant back easily against the worktop and didn’t demand anything in way of explanation. He didn’t attempt to fill the emptiness at all, in fact, just sipped his coffee with his eyes on mine. I suspected then that very little on this earth would phase James Clarke.

“I’m sorry,” I managed.

He looked me up and down. “You need a change of clothes. I’ve a spare jacket in my office, it’ll dwarf you, but at least you’ll be warm.”