Faith (4 page)

“Here. You can keep it afterwards.” He shoves a handkerchief into my fingers. I use it to cover my face as he strokes my lank hair back. I don’t attempt to speak, just concentrate on mopping up what I can of the damage as I try to collect myself. When I’m settled at last, Ewan tries again.

“Well, that was unexpected. But long overdue, I suspect. Are you ready to talk now, do you think?”

I nod, though in truth I doubt if I’ll ever be truly ready.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You think what happened was somehow your fault? That you might have prevented it?”

Again I nod.

“How? How could you have prevented it? Ed wouldn’t have listened to you. I’m sorry, Faith, I don’t want to sound brutal, but it’s true. He did just as he wanted, regardless of anything you might have said.”

“If I hadn’t agreed to swap, Caroline would still be alive. I wanted a lift home.”

“I know, and you could have had that whether Carrie rode back on the bike or not. I said that to Ed while you were in the toilets getting changed.”

“I… oh.” I’m not sure what difference this makes, but it seems significant.

“If anyone could have, should have stopped Carrie getting on that bike, it was me. If I’d said no, she wouldn’t have done it. But I let her, and by the time I realised the danger it was already too late. If either one of us is to blame it’s not you, Faith. It’s me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why not? Do you have a monopoly on that?”

“I don’t understand? I thought you… I mean, I was scared that you might think…”

“Think what? Did you really believe that I’d come round her this evening just to accuse you of killing my sub? Sorry, my girlfriend.”

I try to look away, staring at the crumpled, soggy handkerchief twisting between my fingers. He’s having none of that. He cups my chin and lifts my face back up, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Did you think that, Faith?”

“Yes.”

“You were wrong. Wrong about why I’m here, and wrong about the accident. If you feel guilty to be alive when Carrie’s dead, maybe that’s just because what happened was so bizarre. A cruel twist of fate. Yes, it could so easily have been you. You
are
lucky to be alive. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have any right to be. Carrie didn’t deserve what happened to her, but neither did you deserve it.”

I notice he makes no such comment regarding Ed. I don’t either.

“I wish to God I’d refused her permission, insisted we give you a lift back. I thought about it, but decided to let Carrie do what she wanted to do. There was no way I could have known, not at that stage, but I’ve still beaten myself up about it. I was responsible for her, I let her down. I didn’t intend to; if I could turn the clock back I would. But it happened, it’s done now. There’s no going back, for any of us.”

I’m staring at him, incredulous. All these months I was convinced Carrie’s death was my fault, and it seems at least to some extent he’s been blaming himself for it. His lip quirks in a sardonic half-smile.

“What a pair we make. I wish I’d come earlier. I wanted to talk to you, probably because we shared it, that experience.”

“Yes, I know. No one else understands. It was so, so—unique. And so awful.”

“It was. But we have to pick ourselves up now. We have to move on.”

“You already have.”

“No, not really. I’ve been away because I was working, but I always knew I’d be back here eventually. I hoped you’d still be here, but I wasn’t sure until you opened your door earlier.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Carrie? Yes, of course. I cared about her, cared deeply.”

“Did you love her?” His words are an odd choice, and I feel I need to ask.

“I understood her, and she trusted me. You know what our relationship was. Carrie told you about it.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Not much, but a little.”

“I was her dom.”

“You used to hit her.”

“I did. With her permission.”

“I know that. She liked it. And she adored you.”

He hesitates, and I begin to realise that perhaps Carrie’s feelings were not entirely reciprocated, though Ewan will never say that. I admire his loyalty, and his sensitivity. My gut wrenches again with a slight stirring of something, gladness perhaps, that what happened that fateful day may not have entirely ruined his life.

I sit for a while, make myself more tea and try to regroup. My reality is shifting again as I consider the truth of Ewan’s words. He’s right; my influence over Ed was always limited. My husband did as he liked and somehow managed to drag me along with him. I’d convinced myself that Ed cared about me, loved me as much as I loved him. Now I’m not so sure. Even on that last, fateful day, he’d put his own wishes first. He had known that Ewan was happy to offer me a lift whether or not I swapped with Caroline, and turned that down without even talking to me. I was left believing that I had somehow forced her onto the bike, when of course I hadn’t. Ewan was spot on about that.

So, where does this leave me now? I ponder that as I undress and climb into my bed. I had needed to adjust, to re-orient myself. I was a wife; I’m now a widow. I had a husband; now I have only myself. I was part of a couple; now I’m alone.

Well, perhaps not quite alone. I have my sister and her family. And I have a neighbour who seems nice. Maybe.

I can’t sleep. Nothing unusual about that these days, but this time it feels different. This time it’s not the usual lump of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach keeping me awake as I roll and toss and imagine the empty, yawning gulf that constitutes my so-called future. This time my head is spinning with confused and tangled possibilities, with half-formed ideas and the chaos of wondering what’s next.

It’s all Ewan Lord’s doing. He unravelled me with effortless ease, held me while I sobbed all over him, then left after an hour or so.

We chatted, polished off the bottle of wine, then I made some tea for us both. He told me about his work as a civil engineer. His specialist niche is sports stadia, and he tends to get roped in at the early stages of most of the major sporting events anywhere in the world. His current project is in Qatar, laying the groundwork for the 2022 FIFA World Cup. It sounds so much more exciting than my boring job with Em See Squared.

I dreamed once of being self-employed, of owning my own graphic design consultancy. I’d thought perhaps I could spend a few years working for another outfit, learning the industry, making contacts, saving what I could. In the past Ed and I always needed the money. We relied on my regular salary coming in to pay the bills. It would have been a while before I might have felt ready to leave the safe haven of Em See Squared and take the risk of starting out on my own. But with Ed to support me, maybe I could have done it. Now, alone, it all looks too daunting.

Or does it? I wonder what Ewan’s take would be. And even more incredibly, I actually want to know what he thinks.

The irony is, I have more money now than I ever imagined. I could easily afford to take the plunge. Every cloud and all that, Ed’s insurance has left me with no financial worries. I had no inkling that he’d laid down such generous provisions for me. I still can’t believe it. I wasn’t short of advice about what to do with the money—the bank, Helen, colleagues, all had their suggestions to make. Investments, buy an annuity (whatever one of those is), blow it on an expensive holiday. My head was a whirl, so I did nothing. The bulk of the money is still languishing in my bank account.

* * *

I wake up feeling better, more refreshed than I can recall feeling for months. A weight has lifted, and as I clean my teeth in the bathroom I realise what that was. Guilt. I no longer feel guilty, no longer responsible. I’m finding some perspective. What happened was cruel, but the awful, crushing burden of self-blame is receding. Not quite gone, not yet. I’ve hugged the grief to me for too long to be entirely free of it with just a few well-chosen words, but it’s easier now.

I miss Ed. I expect I always will. But I’m ready to start moving on. My first move will be to say thank you to Ewan Lord for talking some sense into me. And I’ll ask him what he thinks about me starting my own business.

I hesitate in front of his door. I’ve been into the house next door a few times, to chat with Caroline. We shared a coffee occasionally, and once or twice she accepted parcels for us that I would go round to collect. Now, as I lift my hand to knock, I have no idea what I’ll say when Ewan answers.

He’s in. I saw him get into his car earlier and drive off, but he was back within half an hour. He unloaded some shopping bags and went inside. The car is still here so that means he is too. I rap on the door before I lose my courage, though why I should be afraid of Ewan I’m not certain. Not now.

The door opens. He smiles. He has dimples in his cheeks—quite breath-taking. I’m struck again by the colour of his eyes, a deep, dark brown that compliments his almost-black hair.

“Faith. I thought it might be you. Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, please. I wanted…” I realise the business advice was a cover story, my excuse to come here. In truth I’m not entirely sure what it is I want from him. Just his presence, his company seems to be enough.

He gestures me to follow him and heads back down his hallway. I trot along in his wake, my eyes fixed on his tight bum beautifully showcased in his casual denim Levis. I follow him into his kitchen. The shopping bags are on the table, the fridge door standing open.

“I have the makings of breakfast. Can I offer you anything?” His smile is pleasant enough, but my overwhelming impression is that he is one devilishly gorgeous man. How did I miss that fact last night? Caroline was lucky to have him. I always thought so.

Christ, where did that come from?
I never approved of their relationship, the specifics of it that is. And I was in love with my husband, I would never have so much as looked at another man.

“Are you alright, Faith?”

“What?”

“You look a little… odd. Would you like to sit down?”

“Er, yes. Thank you.” I plonk myself on one of the chairs beside his kitchen table and stare at him.
Shit, he’s beautiful.

“Faith?”

“What?”
I fancy him. I fancy this man whose girlfriend I…

The realisation hurtles through my head, ricocheting around my skull. Impossible. Inappropriate. This absolutely cannot be happening. But it is, or at least it seems to be. I try to sweep together the dregs of any good sense and reason I might still lay claim to. I didn’t do anything to Caroline, her death was an accident, not my doing at all. I do now accept that. Any feelings I might have, or imagine I have for Ewan are just the conjurings of my lurid sub-conscious. Yes, that must be it. We shared a traumatic experience. It’s natural, surely, that I might turn to him now. He’s the one person in the entire world who shares my grief.

“Bacon sandwich? Tea, perhaps? Or do you prefer coffee in the mornings?” His voice is friendly, light. He doesn’t sound to be exactly grieving. Me neither, but there can be no other realistic explanation for this madness.

It’s not just my head playing tricks. My body is too. My pussy is damp, that familiar sensation of need, of burgeoning arousal that Ed could elicit with his smile, his touch, a few dirty suggestions. My libido has been dormant for months but there can be no mistaking its re-emergence now.
Holy shit
.

“I need to go.” I leap to my feet and head for the door.

“But you just got here.”

I stop in the doorway, turn to him, my expression probably bordering on frantic by now. “Yes, but I, I forgot something. Something I need to do.”

“Bollocks! Get back in here and sit down.”

“What?”

“I said, get back in here and sit down. Now.” His tone has hardened, his eyes are cool. The dimples are gone. His expression is stern, implacable. It never occurs to me to disobey. I return to the table and take my seat.

“Here. Drink this. And tell me why you’re here.”

He places a cup of tea in front of me and takes the seat opposite. I notice he also has a drink. He seems to be in no rush to put his shopping away right now.

I take a sip. It’s hot. Too hot. Like him.

“Take your time. Calm down, then talk to me.” He sounds less harsh now, less commanding. My pleasant, friendly next-door neighbour is back.

I take another sip of my tea, and concentrate on re-gathering my shattered wits. Well, sufficient to frame an answer.

“I wanted to thank you. For last night. You were very kind.”

“You’re welcome. As I told you, I’ve been concerned about you. I wish I’d been able to talk to you sooner.”

“No, that’s fine. You’re busy. I understand that. And, there’s something else too.”

“Oh?”

“I’m starting a business.”

“I see. In graphic design? You did say you were a graphic artist, didn’t you?”

I’d told him a little about myself and my job over our cups of tea last night. I nod now. “Yes. My own design agency. I’m going to specialise in web design. I’ll work from home.”

“Right. That won’t be too isolating for you?”

“No. I don’t think so. I’ll be busy, and of course there’ll be a lot of client contact. I’m thinking I could convert my attic into a design studio. Install a roof window to get the best light. I have some money, from the insurance…”

If my mention of life assurance causes him any pain, he hides it well. “Sounds like a plan then. You didn’t mention this last night.”

“I hadn’t thought of it then. Or at least, not properly decided. Now I have. So, what do you think?”

“I think it sounds great. You go for it. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, I mean, I just… I just wanted to know what you thought. If you approved.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does my approval matter to you? Why not ask your sister? Or someone at work? Friends, maybe. Why me?”

Good question. And one I can’t answer, at least not out loud. Not even to myself. All I know is I woke this morning, the notion of starting my own firm already crystallising in my head, and my one thought was to come round and tell Ewan Lord about it. So here I am.