His Majesty's Hope(102)
Maggie got off the bed and went to him. “I’m sorry, John.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Maggie saw no reason to lie. “Yes.”
He jerked as if she’d struck him. “Your first time was with him?”
Wait, why am I being treated as if I’ve done something wrong? “We all thought you were dead, John!”
He went to the fireplace and picked up the poker by the key handle. He took it and swung it against the wall. The plaster cracked. He swung again. This time a large chunk of plaster crumbled to the floor, leaving bare bricks exposed. He turned to face her. “And it took you, what, all of five minutes to get over me?”
“I never stopped loving you,” Maggie said, eyes swimming with tears.
“It was the thought of you—you—that kept me going in that hell. That kept me fighting.”
He stayed true to me, against unbearable odds, while I had just … moved on. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. All I can say, again, is that we thought you were dead.”
John continued to pace, both hands running through his hair until it was standing on end. “And you killed someone! You shot a man, in cold blood! I don’t know you anymore.”
Now it was her turn for anger. “How dare you judge me? You’ve killed any number of people. But you were up in a plane, so you didn’t have to see it. And it’s not as if you’re some sort of blushing virgin yourself—”
John took another swing at the wall with the poker. There was a terrible noise, and more plaster rained down, revealing the brick wall beneath. “I’d appreciate it if you left,” he said, turning.
Maggie was suddenly frightened of him, frightened of the strange look on his face. The humor, the joy, the life, had vanished from his eyes. She wanted the old John back, arrogant, infuriating, mocking. And she wanted, more than anything, to be the girl she used to be. But they had both seen too much, done too much. They knew too much about each other.
She wiped tears from her eyes, then straightened. “Of course,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-three
Chuck, almost nine months pregnant, her handsome face plump and glowing with good health, bustled about the kitchen in her flat with her usual mix of cheer and pragmatism. “Sit down, sit down, Maggie,” she clucked, trying to tie an apron around her middle and then giving up. “Nothing fits anymore,” she groaned. “Now you sit down and we’ll talk.”
“I wish we could talk. But I’m not allowed to say anything. About anything.”
“Well,” Chuck said, cheerfully rattling the tea things, “why don’t you start with telling me how you feel. No state secrets there, right?”
“May I help? Really, in your condition—”
“Oh, in my condition—that’s just silly. I actually feel better up and moving. It’s when I sit down that I start to feel overwhelmed.”
Chuck poured hot water from the kettle into the teapot and then brought the tray to the table. “Now, tell your old flatmate what’s on your mind.” She handed Maggie a cup and saw how raw her friend’s face was with hurt and anger.
“I don’t feel like myself anymore,” Maggie confessed. “All I want to do is cry. And sleep. I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to leave my room. I’m a stranger in my own mind.”
“You’ve seen things you wish you hadn’t,” Chuck said bluntly, taking a sip of tea. “Of course you have demons.”
Maggie laugh-snorted. “Of a sort.”
“We all have demons, you know.” Chuck was a pediatric nurse at Great Ormond Street Hospital. Of course she had her own demons.
“Not the simple girls.” Maggie shook her head. “Simple girls don’t have demons. Simple girls want to have fun, whatever that is. My whole life I’ve been an overachiever—and what has it done for me? Nowhere. Nothing. Remember the twins?” The twins Clarabelle and Annabell had lived with Maggie and Chuck last summer. She laughed, a harsh laugh. “The twins were simple girls. Flat as paper dolls. Only worried about boys and clothes …”
“Perhaps,” Chuck agreed. “But you don’t know what was really in their hearts and minds.”
“I wish I were a simple girl,” Maggie said. “That I could amputate all my ambition. But I can’t. It’s too late now. And now, because I tried for too much, I’m ruined inside. I’m broken.”
“I’ve seen soldiers come back like this, Maggie,” Chuck said, reaching out a hand. “Shell shock is what we call it. Father Time is your best healer.”