Dirty Bad Wrong(4)
“But it got better? You moved on?”
“It took me a while to lose the ring, but I’m now glad it’s gone. Genuinely.”
Stuart’s face flashed before my eyes again. I pictured him, and Carly, and their tiny little baby. Maybe she’d have a ring one day, the one that should’ve been mine. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
James Clarke moved with purpose, he reached across the desk and took my hands in his, they were warm and steady and so much bigger than mine. The shock of the contact snapped me out of my misery, and I was back in the moment, right there in his office. It was strangely intimate, but I didn’t feel the urge to pull away. “Listen to me, Lydia. Don’t beat yourself up. It’s ok to fall apart until you piece your life back together.”
“That’s not really my style.”
“I know it’s a cliché, but it can be good for you, to cry it out.”
“Any other suggestions?”
He stared straight into my eyes. “Suck it up, all the way inside. Put a wall around yourself and refuse to dwell on the pain, not even for a second. Every time a memory comes up just push it away. Slowly, but surely, it becomes second nature. The hurt fades.”
“Is that what you did?”
“I should have binned the ring sooner, it would have made the process a lot easier.”
I studied the man sat before me, the hard line of his jaw, his confident smile. His black hair was perfectly tousled, making his dark eyes appear even darker. He was certainly imposing in his self-assured calmness.
Women in the office talked about him, a lot. He was the resident ‘I would’ eye candy of the female Trial Run populous, and up close I could see why. I sensed some darkness spring up in him, and he took his hands away. Whatever had gone down with his ex-wife had got him good, I could tell, but he’d buried it alright, just like he said, buried it deep. My angry ghosts saluted his, waving from the shadows. His waved back before his eyes returned to calm, mask restored.
I looked past him through the window as the dawn broke on a dreary day outside, the first day of life without Stuart.
Back at my desk I deleted the text messages and barred Stu’s number. I’d build the wall sky-fucking-high, higher than high, to the ceiling of the whole fucking universe, where the pain couldn’t reach me ever again.
***
It was almost 8am when the ping of my email sounded. I’d never been so pleased at the prospect of something to do, but the email wasn’t from a client at all.
From: James Clarke
Subject: Coffee
Should you wish to store your suitcase in my office for the day please do feel free. It may save you some well-meaning questioning from colleagues once 9am hits. You’ve enough on your mind right now. I don’t imagine you’d appreciate their sympathy.
James
James Clarke
CTO, Trial Run Software Group.
A man with intuition.
To: James Clarke
Subject: Re: Coffee
You imagined right. Thank you very much. I’ll bring it up.
Lydia
Lydia Marsh
Senior Project Co-ordinator, Trial Run Software Group.
I shoved my drying clothes back in and wrenched the case closed. I’d only just managed to yank it upright when my email pinged again.
From: James Clarke
Subject: Re: Re: Coffee
No need.
James
The office door was already swinging open as I read it, and there he was, mobile tablet in hand on his way to my desk. I took him in as he approached; the confidence of his stride, his self-assured expression, the gorgeous goddamn suit he was wearing. He could have stepped straight off Savile Row. His jacket was pale grey pinstripe, paired strikingly with a dark burgundy tie. Pure white shirt, tailored trousers showcasing solid toned thighs. Even his feet joined in on the show, gleaming to perfection in mirror-shined brogues. He really was Mr Corporate, you could almost smell the senior management title on him. He was tall, really damn tall, commanding an imposing frame without being bulky. I’d heard on the grapevine that he worked out every lunchtime without fail, but he didn’t use the shared gym in our complex. The messy tendrils of his hair contrasted perfectly with the hard angles of his face. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Old enough to be distinguished, but without even a hint of salt and pepper hair. James Clarke was an impressive specimen. Still, it meant nothing to me, nothing at all. He could be anyone for all I cared this morning, just as long as he hid my suitcase.
“I figured you’d lugged that thing far enough this morning already. Where are you headed when work’s done?”
“Islington, I think. I’m counting on a friend.”
“Let me know.” He leant in close as he grabbed my case, and I caught a scent of musk, almost Arabian, and underneath the smell of fresh linen, and vanilla soap. If that’s what a senior management title smells like, it smells damn good.