The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Nineteen

The view I get as she goes is painful. Perfect. Lithe, pale legs leading up to her perfect naked arse. I have to bite down on my cheek to stop from growling in frustration. I consider shouting something after her but I have fuck all to throw back at her.  Plus, I'm still reeling slightly from her words. Grow up? Grow up? Yeah, I should get right on that.

I scrape a hand over my face and let out a long tired breath. Then I lift the half-empty bottle of Ted's finest Italian red and carry it with me out onto the patio. The moon is so bright that I don't need a light on to see my way to the rocking chair or to refill my glass, emptying the rest of the bottle. I'd already decided that this red isn't going to give me a hangover, but since I'd necked most of this second bottle by myself I'm definitely tempting fate.

My head is eerily quiet; wide-open darkness stretching for miles. Until all of a sudden, it isn't quiet. Everything seems to come rushing in at once like a dam's just burst inside it. How is it that she can't see my fucking point here? How is it that she can't see how answering the phone was her choosing him over me when it came right down to it. Instantly too. She hadn't even had to think about it. He'd called and she'd run. And when it came down to it, she would always choose him. How else did she think I was going to react exactly?

I'm not entirely sure what causes the tide to turn in my head, but it happens almost the next instant, the realisation loud and clear.

She hadn't chosen yet. Course there would be little battles for her attention and her thoughts that I might lose, but there would come a point when she would have to pick a winner. She'd have to choose between us for the last time. She'd already chosen me once. Yesterday when she'd spent the day in my bed. She'd chosen me over him then because she wanted me more than him. More than her marriage.

Am I actually sitting outside feeling sorry for myself because she took a single fucking phone call? Of course, she'd had to take the call. Because at this point in time he was still her husband. She hadn't promised me a fucking thing. She hadn't once alluded to me that she might leave him, or that this thing between us was anything more than sex. Startling too is the realisation that she's right, I am behaving like a fucking child. And since these days with her here were a chance for me to show her why she should choose me when the time came, I needed to act like a fucking man. The kind of man she might be able to imagine herself with. The kind of man she might leave her husband for.

The wooden stairs are sturdy but they still give a creak as I take them two at a time. I pass a few stylishly decorated bedrooms as I head along to the master she had pointed at earlier from the couch. The room is large, with wooden shuttered windows and a huge balcony looking out onto the lake on one side opposite the bed. The bedside lamps are on giving it a warm, cosy, glow and the large oak four-poster looks solid yet comfortable.

The door to the en-suite is closed but not all the way, and as I get closer I hear the sound of water being splashed. I knock softly before pushing open the door into a large bathroom which is lit only by a low light over the mirror and a few candles. She's lying back in a large roll-top bath, her head resting on a makeshift pillow in the form of a towel. Her hair is knotted high on top of her head and her cheeks are red, as the steam lifts off from the bath around her body.

She turns her head and gives me a long indecipherable look and sits up, lifting her wine glass and drinking deeply. She keeps her eyes on mine as she savours the taste. I offer her a small reserved smile before crossing the room and taking a seat on the closed toilet lid.

We stare at each other for a long time, a hot tense silence that isn't nearly as uncomfortable as I'd feared. "Need a hand washing your hair?" I ask finally.