Halfway down to the second floor, I came to a standstill, grabbing the railing and craning my head over the banister. There were lights and voices coming from the front parlour. Someone was most definitely here. At first I thought maybe Ruth had come back to stir up more trouble, or worse, Penny had dropped by. But I doubted it was Penny – it was the middle of the night and she was probably strapped into her coffin right about now. I lingered on the stairs, torn between my instinct to retreat to my room and my curiosity about who the voice belonged to. The female voice talking to Ben.
I slowly stepped down, hoping that the shadows would help me stay hidden as I came closer to the parlour.
Ben stood with his arms encircled around a woman: slender and blonde and … crying. He rubbed at her shoulders in a soothing caress as he made comforting sounds in her ear. Oh my god. I felt something inside of me twang unexpectedly, shocking me as much as the scene before me.
Even though her back was to me I could tell she was from money. Her long tan coat was beautifully cut and made from lush fabric, her heels were black and high, and there was a Louis Vuitton purse hooked in the crook of the arm wrapped around Ben. She held on for dear life as her sobs filtered up the stairs.
Who was she?
And then as she drew away, looking at Ben's sad eyes as he wiped tears from her dampened cheeks, it suddenly occurred to me. Was this Grace's mother? My stomach plummeted with the thought.
I wanted her to turn around so I could see her face, but then I was afraid to stay watching because – for some reason that really troubled me – the thought of him kissing her made my insides twist. I did not want to stay to see it. Whoever she was, she had come to see Ben in the middle of the night. And then with horror, I realised that if he chose to lead her up the stairs, I would be blocking their path.
I cautiously made my way back up until I heard movement from below. I made the safety of the corner of the staircase in the nick of time, tentatively peering around to see the blonde striding to the door.
'I have to go,' she said, barely keeping her emotions in check as Ben rushed after her, forcing the door closed as she tried to open it.
'Holly, wait!'
It was then she turned to him, her face flushed, her eyes big and bloodshot from crying. She was plain; pretty enough but not overly beautiful. It was a surprise that someone like Ben would be into her, I thought rather bitterly, before scolding myself for judging, and for caring.
'I have to go,' she said quietly.
Ben sighed. I could see the resignation in his broad shoulders as he looked at her, it was almost like he knew he couldn't stop her. He grabbed her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.
'Promise me something.' His voice was etched with a meaning that dare not be denied.
'What?'
'Don't go back to him.'
A small, sad smile touched the edge of her mouth. 'Why, because it would break your heart?'
Ben shook his head, reaching for the door and opening it for her. 'It's already broken.'
I wasn't sure what to do.
Leaning against the front door below me, palms flat against the glossed wood, stood a defeated man. I wanted to go to him as much as I wanted to run from him. I had come closer to learning something about this man's life, but rather than it being a story shared over a civilised dinner, I had witnessed it in the shadows, witnessed something that raised more questions than answers.
'Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich?' His voice trailed up the stairs.
Fuck! My heart stopped, my mind returning to the present. Oh God, how long had he known I was there, being a total creeper?
I took a deep breath before stepping onto the landing, suddenly wishing my oversized T-shirt with I NY on it was longer. He turned to me, his eyes stormy and his arms folded. I wanted to shrink into the shadows, lock myself away for what was left of the weekend and pretend this had never happened. I could have slinked up the stairs with a thousand apologies, but I had already slunk away once tonight and there were only so many times you could play the coward card. So this time, even with every fibre of my body screaming against it, I went down, closing the distance between me and the wolf that waited at the bottom the stairs. If he asked, I would totally deny that I had seen or heard anything.
I stopped on the fourth last step, giving myself a height advantage. I enjoyed having the tables turned, him having to look up at me with those penetrating grey-blue eyes. There was a wry smile on his face as his gaze swept over my attire. I fought against the urge to stretch the hem of my tee down over my thighs.
He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. He didn't ask if I'd been eavesdropping, or if I was hungry. He just left me standing there as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. I lingered, wondering what I should do and then, before I knew it, I was heading for the kitchen too. It was unlit; the only thing illuminated was Ben, who stood in the doorway of the fridge as he peered inside. He was lit up like a god and I found myself lured to him like a moth to flame. I stood beside him, peering into the fridge, giving its contents as much serious attention as he did. The cool air caused my skin to prickle and I rubbed my arms against the cold. The movement caught Ben's attention and he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. I thought he might break the silence with some quip about grilled cheese, or drop his gaze again to my daggy apparel, but there was nothing, not an ounce of humour on his stern face. I shivered – maybe it was the cold blasting from the fridge? No, it was those eyes. Eyes that seemed haunted by something I wanted to discover so much. So many secrets, Ben Worthington.
I didn't expect him to tell me. I all but sighed in relief when he let the fridge door close. I knew he was looking at me though, I could feel his eyes on me. A part of me wanted him to turn the light on, but then a whole other part of me took comfort in the shadows. I thought I could handle the strangeness of the situation, forget about the mystery that shrouded this man, ignore the depths of his questioning stares. And then the unexpected happened. He spoke.
'I'm not cheating on my wife, if that's what you're thinking.'
I was stunned by what he'd said. This was the smallest amount of information he had ever parted with, but perhaps held the most meaning. I was relieved that I hadn't asked, and then I wished that I could see his face, read in his eyes the anger, the sorrow. And almost as if he had read my mind, the glossy marble slab was lit by the pendant lights above. I had to blink to adjust my eyes. Then I saw Ben, leaning against the counter, his arms folded and a faraway expression on his face that made my heart ache. I knew there was a story here. Caught between wanting to know more and frightened by the change in a man who was usually so stoic, I didn't question him, didn't dare bring him out of his memory. I moved slightly, feeling the coldness of the stainless steel fridge at my back. I knew that it was not advised to disturb a sleep walker, but what if someone was revisiting a memory, one that seemed so painful that lines of fatigue etched across their face?
I wanted to go to him, comfort him and reassure him that everything would be okay, even if I wasn't certain it would be. That he didn't have to tell me anything but if he wanted to, I would listen. I wanted to say all the right things, and more than that, I wanted to touch him, let him feel the consolation of my hand. Maybe I wouldn't need to say anything at all, maybe I could show him just by touching his shoulder, by rubbing my hand across his shoulder blades in a soothing way or placing my hand over his. Turning on the light was the worst thing Ben could have done, but not nearly as bad as what happened next. Like some out-of-body experience where I could hear the words escaping from my mouth but was unable to stop them, I broke all the rules.
I asked the biggest question of all.
'Where is your wife?' My voice was low, shaky. Ben's eyes looked into mine, harsher and darker than I had ever seen them before. I almost shied away from them. He was clearly distraught, and how I wished I could take back my words.
'Caroline,' he said.
I swallowed. 'Caroline,' I repeated. I swear my heart stopped. Caroline.
Knowing her name made it real, and I wished almost immediately that Ben would take it back, that I could wipe it from my memory, because as much as I'd thought I'd wanted to know, now I realised I didn't; ignorance really was bliss and I didn't want what was an already complicated existence to be muddied further.
'Caroline … she … ' For the first time, Ben seemed unsure about what to say. 'She died, Sarah. My wife is dead.' He turned away from me and gripped the edge of the counter so hard I thought the marble might shatter.
I exhaled a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding, my horrified eyes boring into Ben's slumped shoulders. I had never hated myself more. Oh God, why did I have to ask, why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut? I had suspected a broken home, a wayward wife, but not this, never this.
I could see the rise and fall of Ben's shoulders as he took deep, measured breaths. Before, I had fantasised about going to him, comforting him, but this time I didn't think, I just did. I placed my palm on his shoulder, rubbing the soft fabric.