Please Release Me (9 page)

Her hands flexed with the urge to touch him and stroke the ridge of his cheekbone and feel the evening stubble. To run her fingers through his sensible blonde hair. But that was an indulgence too far. She clenched her fists and turned away. Peter was not for her. She may as well enjoy being his friend. It was the best she was going to get.

Peter had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He woke up to find the room in semi darkness. For a moment he wondered where he was. The sofa was hot and embracing. That might explain the dream. He’d had dreams like that when he’d first met Sally. This time they featured Grace. He rubbed a hand over his face and slowly sat up.

He was still in Grace’s living room. The light was on in the kitchen and he could see Grace moving around. The radio was on. She was dancing a little as she leaned against the counter, reading something. She seemed to glow in the yellow light of the kitchen. He watched her for a moment, trapped between reality and the dream of a few moments ago, when she’d been wrapped around him. She was beautiful and he wanted her so much it was almost a physical ache now. He squeezed his eyes shut. This had to stop. It was lust, that was all. The best thing he could do was get away.

He made his way to the kitchen, feeling bleary from afternoon sleep. ‘I should head off.’

Grace turned. A bit of his dream sprang back into his mind. He tried to focus on something else. Anything.

‘Stay for dinner?’ She pointed at a pan on the hob. ‘I’ve made enough for two.’

He hesitated.

‘It’s only pasta and pesto,’ she said, misunderstanding. ‘Nothing special. So, don’t feel you have to.’

‘Excuse me a minute. I really need to wake up properly.’ He hurried off to the bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. He glared at himself in the mirror and told himself to pull himself together. He liked Grace and found her attractive. Fine. He was allowed to look. But he couldn’t put himself in the position that he felt anything more than a passing attraction. He had to think of Sally. A small voice pointed out that he rarely thought about anything BUT Sally, but he squashed the thought. He should go home. Staying for tea until she recovered was acceptable. Dinner, probably not. He nodded at his reflection. ‘Go home Peter.’

When he returned to the kitchen, he could smell the pesto. His stomach rumbled. It was such a clean basil smell. But he had to be strong. ‘Thanks for the offer of dinner, but I really had better head off,’ he said. He picked up his jacket, which he’d slung over the back of the chair.

Her face fell. Even if he’d had a heart of stone, he would have felt her disappointment. As it was, he wanted to change his mind and stay. He told himself to stand firm. ‘I’ve got some work to do before bed. I’m sorry.’

Grace nodded. She sucked in her lower lip and let it go. Her composure returned and she smiled. ‘Well, thank you for all your help. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ She followed him out into the hall.

‘Thanks for the tea. I enjoyed it.’ He was surprised at how true this was. He paused, one hand on the door handle. ‘I’m sorry I got a bit deep on you at the end. And then fell asleep.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ She touched his arm. He felt the thrill of her touch zing though his body. She looked up, brow furrowed. ‘I know how exhausting it is to be a carer. You take sleep where you can.’

He couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. All he could focus on was her lips. Moving. Time seemed to slow down. He raised his eyes to meet hers and saw them widen. The lips stopped moving, slightly parted. The realisation that she wanted him as much as he wanted her almost made him stop breathing. He managed to say ‘I should go.’ It came out in a hoarse gasp.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her eyes remained on his. ‘I’ll see you around at the hospice, I guess.’

He appreciated the effort to lighten the mood. ‘I guess so.’

‘Thanks again for helping me,’ she leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. The touch of lips on his face was too much. He turned his face as she was drawing away and kissed her back.

He hadn’t intended to kiss her like that. It was meant to be a peck on the lips. But as soon as his lips touched hers, his mind went blank and his body took over, kissing her fiercely like he’d wanted to do all afternoon. She drew a sharp breath and then kissed him back. She tasted of pesto and lemonade and her smell was deliciously human, not flowery, not musky, but so very real. He wanted her so much he felt his blood fizzing in his veins. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him. He wanted her with every cell in his body. Her hands in his hair sent thrills though him. When she finally drew away from him, he didn’t want to let her go.

They stared at each other, both breathing hard. His hands were still on her hips. Hers rested on his chest. Her eyes were wide as though she were surprised with herself. The moment hung between them, a line beyond which there was no turning back. All Peter could feel was the pounding of need in him. She never broke eye contact with him. Slowly, she drew her fingers into a fist. He felt the path of each fingertip scorching him through his T-shirt and there was no more doubt. They were kissing again. Hungry and needing each other. He walked her backwards and pressed her against the wall.

They ended up on the sofa. He kneeled over her and stroked the side of her face. When he pulled the band out of her hair, she ran her fingers through it, so that it lay long and loose over her shoulder. He stopped for a minute, stunned by how beautiful she was. He wanted her so much. Her hair slipped, thick and silky, through his fingers. So dark, so heavy. Completely unlike Sally’s whispy blonde.

‘Sally.’ The thought of Sally froze him. Dear god, what was he
doing
?

He looked up at Grace and saw the shock on her face too. She wriggled out from between his knees and drew her knees up, as though trying to hide from him.

‘I should go.’ He pulled his T-shirt straight and looked around for his glasses.

She handed them to him, as though she’d read his mind. When he saw her face, his heart cracked. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

She looked away, hugging her knees closer. ‘Me too.’

He grabbed his keys and fled. There was no goodbye. No empty promises to call her. Nothing. Just the memory of her lips on his. And guilt.

Grace locked the door and went back to the kitchen where her pasta was a soggy mess. She stared at it. She picked up the pan, then put it down again. The thoughts that she was avoiding came crowding in. She sank into a chair.

She could still feel his lips on her. The warm slide of his fingertips against her skin. Her body felt as though it had woken up, as though his touch had turned something insubstantial into something real. She had seen the need in his eyes and sensed the connection between them. But she had also seen the guilt and panic just after.

She’d only known Peter a short time, but she knew him well enough to know that the guilt would eat away at him. He would blame himself, but it was her fault, really. She would have to catch him and let him know that she understood he didn’t mean it. It was a momentary lapse that happened because they’d been through something out of the ordinary together, or because they were both so lonely.

All these things, she could say to him, but she knew that really there were no excuses for what happened. They had both wanted more, she was sure of it. But Peter had been sensible enough to stop things before they went too far. She should be grateful. The trouble was she still wanted him. She would give almost anything to feel the melting warmth of his mouth on hers again. In a moment of clarity she realised that there was more to it than that. She had wanted Peter with every level of her being. She wanted to be his – mind, body and soul. At some point in the past few weeks, she’d fallen in love with Peter Wesley.

Grace sighed. Sally may be in a coma, but she was still his wife. Grace had no right to make any claims on him. He was married. That made her some sort of harlot. Or a hypocrite at the very least.

She poured the overdone pasta into the bin and tried not to cry. All this time alone and she’d finally fallen for someone. Why did it have to be someone she couldn’t have?

Peter couldn’t sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Grace. God, she was beautiful. He’d felt so relaxed in her company, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. But there was Sally. His wife. He loved Sally. How could he even
think
of sleeping with someone else? What was wrong with him? He had never, ever thought he’d be capable of cheating on a woman. Never. And yet he almost had. He couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong. When had he taken a turning that meant he could lose his self-control?

He threw off the covers and sat up. The clock by his bed showed it was nearly 3 a.m. Peter sighed and got out of bed.

He padded downstairs and into the kitchen. A night cap would help him sleep. Did he have any alcohol? A quick search through the cupboards revealed a complete lack of booze. He would normally have had wine, but his mother had started making sure he never had much in the house. He had no idea where she hid it, or even if she took it away with her. Part of him resented that she trespassed on his life like that. Part of him was amused and grateful.

‘Desperate times,’ he said to the empty kitchen. Talking to himself had started to feel normal too. First that, then adultery. Maybe he did need help. He shook his head as he crossed the hall to the living room and paused at the door. He hadn’t been in there for months. He took a deep breath and let himself in.

Flicking on the light switch revealed a room that looked just like it had done before the wedding. There were pictures of him and Sally. There were bridal magazines in a rack, next to where Sally usually sat. The table had the pale blue and lemon table cloth that Sally had brought with her. His own table cloths tended to be bold checks and blocks of colour. The pastel walls, the wallpapered ‘feature wall’ at the end, the creamy white sofas that felt soft enough to melt under your weight, the cushions that provided splashes of colour, were all Sally’s choices. Sally had known exactly what she wanted. Peter, smitten and slightly relieved not to have to think about sofas and curtains, had let her have free rein over decorating the house. He had to admit she’d done a great job. The room looked like it had been crafted by an interior designer.

He picked up a photo in a silver frame from the side table. He and Sally had gone to Brighton for the weekend. He had his arm around her waist and was grinning like a nutter. Sally, her golden ponytail flying in the breeze was leaning her head against his shoulder and smiling to the camera. He remembered the Chinese students that had taken the photo for them. Sally, with smiles and gestures, had shown them what she wanted. It was a nice picture. Sally’s eyes looked bright and sparkling. He didn’t deserve a woman as beautiful and lively as that. So full of life.

The irony of the description made him snort. Full of life. Hah.

Peter took the photo with him and went to the sideboard. Inside were a number of bottles that had been intended for when they got back from honeymoon. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He put the photograph on the table and the tumbler in front of it. ‘Here’s to you, Sally,’ he said, as he poured himself a small measure.

Grace’s phrase ‘like being haunted by someone’ came back to him. He swallowed the shot in one go. It burned, not unpleasantly, down his throat. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said to the girl in the photo. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go that far. I just …’ He poured himself another shot. ‘It was all my fault. I’ve been missing you so much, Sally. There’s no excuse really. It was stupid. I’m so very sorry.’

The second glass went down more smoothly than the one before. He looked at the bottle thoughtfully. Sally had always watched what she drank. Since meeting her, Peter himself drank much less. She said that alcohol was a great way to unwind, but too much and you start to unravel. Funny, for someone who was normally willing to grab life by the balls, alcohol was one of the few things she was scrupulous about. He wondered if she’d known an alcoholic in the past. She’d implied that once.

Peter sank into the softness of the white sofa, careful not to spill anything. It occurred to him that he didn’t know much about Sally, really. All he knew was that both her parents had died when she was young and she was determined to make her way in the world by herself. Everything she had, she’d earned. That stubborn determination to make it to her dreams, no matter what, was one of the things Peter loved about her. They had so much in common. They both loved the same sort of bold, geometric art prints, the same music (although she had a tangential love of Brit Pop, which he couldn’t really fathom), the same films. He had initially thought that cop movies was a bit of an odd thing for a girl to like, but she threw herself into them, fidgeting with tension during the chase scenes, just like she did with everything else.

Peter poured himself another glass. Last one, he promised her. Looking into the glass, he was surprised to realise it was crystal. He didn’t remember having any proper cut glass. The wedding presents. He had a distant memory of his mother saying ‘Don’t worry about that darling, I’ve asked people if they wanted them back, and most people wanted you to keep them for when Sally comes out of hospital’. It was a nice glass. Sally had chosen well for the wedding list. He’d trusted her with all that. She had clearly done a good job.

He took his time with the third glass. Of course, Sally wasn’t perfect. Who was? The thing with the gambling addiction was a big one. He was glad she’d told him about the debts. Paying them off for her wasn’t so much of a problem, he had the money, but it was persuading her to go to Gamblers Anonymous that was hard. For a long time she’d insisted that it was just a slip. She could control it. She would never go to a casino again. Didn’t he trust her? In the end, she’d woken him up one morning and told him that yes, she wanted to go to GA. She wanted to kick this thing for good. Because she loved him and for him, she would do anything.

Peter smiled at the memory. It had taken a lot for her to face up to her own addiction. He remembered her sitting there, hugging her knees, her eyes full of unshed tears. He remembered his own sense of relief. He’d held her close and hugged her. He could support her through all of that. And they would get through it. Because they loved each other.

But then there was that letter, sitting on top of his briefcase.

‘What were you doing, Sally?’ he said. ‘Why did you need money? And why didn’t you just ask me for it?’

Had Sally been in some sort of trouble? How could he find out, if she had? Perhaps the debt collection company could give him more information. He couldn’t confront Sally to ask.

If he could confront Sally, would he then confess what had just happened with Grace?

Kissing Grace was a mistake caused by his loneliness. It wouldn’t happen again. He finished off his whiskey. He thought again of Grace and the vulnerability of her. She had made him feel … corrected. As though he’d been away for a long time and finally got back to where he belonged. He had never felt like that with Sally. Exhilarated, exhausted, but not that deep-seated satisfaction. He remembered her moan when he kissed her breast and his body thrummed at the mere memory. He had a special connection with Grace, but he could never feel it again.

‘Oh Grace,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so, so, sorry.’

He had managed to be unfaithful to his wife and alienate the one person that made him feel human. ‘Peter, you are a complete fuckwit,’ he said. ‘First you’ve got Mum and Dad thinking you’re depressed and now you’ve screwed up your marriage as well. Great work, bud.’

He groaned and let his head slump back onto the sofa. Then there was his sister, who thought he no longer cared. Well, at least he could do something about that. He would call her as soon as he could the next morning.

Peter felt the terrible push pull of both wanting and not wanting to see Grace again. The text he had sent her had been simply worded and awkward. The whole situation was awkward. He’s asked her to meet him, at a coffee shop near the science park where she worked, in her lunch hour so that he wasn’t putting her to too much trouble. What he had to say was sad enough without adding inconvenience to insult.

He got there five minutes early and got himself a coffee. He spotted her out of the window. Exactly on time, as he’d known she would be. She walked with a hand clutching her coat at the throat, as though she were cold. It made her look skinny and vulnerable. When she came in, she spotted him and she came over without a smile. Her whole demeanour was wary, like she knew what was coming. Perhaps she did know. She was a clever woman.

Peter rose, awkwardly, behind the table. ‘Thanks for coming. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Nothing, thanks.’

Peter sat back down and fiddled with his coffee cup.

Grace sat down, her hands clasped on her knees, her back rigid. So formal. So unlike the Grace he’d got to know. ‘So …?’

Peter shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Grace. I … it shouldn’t have happened.’

She nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That it happened at all? Or …’

And there it was. He wasn’t sorry it had happened at all. He had been prepared to say he didn’t know what had come over him, but seeing her, he knew he couldn’t do that to her. He had wanted her. He still wanted her. But what was the point of telling her that? It wasn’t going to make anything better.

‘I’m married. To Sally …’ He looked at his coffee.

‘I understand.’

‘She’s my wife. And I love her.’

He looked up. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes seemed to glisten slightly. She blinked and drew herself up, stiff. ‘I understand,’ she repeated. ‘And you’re right. It can’t happen again.’

He should have felt relief, but all he felt was sadness. No, more than sadness. Hollow. Emptied.

Grace drew a long breath, seeming almost to gather herself. ‘Sally is your wife. She’s very ill. To be unfaithful to her would be … wrong. And, I’m sorry too. I’m just as much to blame as you are.’ She finally met his eyes. ‘I’ll miss you.’

He could see the effort it took her to say that and he was grateful. ‘I’ll miss you too.’

She held out a hand. He shook it and dropped it quickly. ‘I guess I’ll see you at the hospice?’

She stood up and it was as though a shutter had come down. ‘I guess so,’ she said, for all the world as though they’d never touched. ‘I hope things go well and Sally recovers.’

‘Thank you.’

Grace turned to leave. ‘Look after yourself,’ she said, over her shoulder.

‘You too.’

After she’d gone, Peter sat in a trance-like hush, his coffee untouched in front of him. He had done the right thing. Except it didn’t feel like it. It felt like he’d lost something important. He fought the urge to go back and throw his arms around Grace, to press his head against her and hear her heart beat, to feel her, taste her and, more than anything, just to talk to her. For a few weeks he’d found someone with whom he was comfortable. Now he was alone again. It was just him and Sally.

‘Grace! I heard all about what happened at the abseil. Are you okay?’ Margaret had clearly been tapping into the gossip.

Grace kissed Margaret’s cheek. ‘I’m fine.’ She turned and drew the curtains shut against the gathering dark outside. The rain that had been looming all day finally broke out and smattered against the pane. In the distance, lightning flickered. ‘It’s pretty horrible out there. I just missed getting soaked.’

‘Grace.’ Margaret eyed her. ‘Come here a minute. Let me see your face.’

When Grace stepped closer she exclaimed, ‘My goodness child, you look like you haven’t slept in days! Just how bad was this little fainting fit you had?’

Grace took a moment to reply. Margaret was right that she hadn’t slept, but the reason wasn’t the abseil. It was Peter. She had lain awake thinking about him. When she drifted off to sleep, she dreamt of him.

‘Grace?’ Margaret frowned. ‘What’s wrong? Is it the anxiety attacks coming back?’

Should she confide in Margaret? Would telling one person release the secret so that everyone knew? She was tired of watching the same thoughts go round and round in her head. She had to tell someone. Margaret was the only person she could trust.

‘It’s not the anxiety attack,’ she said. ‘Well, it was, but that was over pretty quickly. I think I just pushed myself a little bit too far then. I’ll have to be more careful in the future.’