Page 50 of One Summer Weekend
Chapter Fifteen
The first thing I did was run a bath, as if tempting fate; but there was no repeat of the night before. Not that I expected it. And perhaps, like other first times, it could never really be repeated.
As I lay shrouded in bubbles, I forced myself to confront my feelings for Troy in uncomfortable detail. Funny how a comparatively short episode could havehad such a lasting impact. Less than two months of uninhibited hedonism – or, as he’d called it, total immersion – had resulted in three years of withdrawal into a half-life of restraint.
I resolved to shed the last vestiges of bitterness and self-reproach. As with any relationship, there were good memories mixed with the bad; with new insight, I realised that I just needed to give myselfpermission to enjoy them. After all, there were plenty to choose from … Walking in the National Redwood Forest, craning our necks at the trees; humbled – yes, even Troy had used the word – by their unearthly grandeur. Wine-tasting in Sonoma, Napa’s quieter neighbour; his wry comment that we were already intoxicated by each other, a wine that money couldn’t buy. Seeing the quirkiness of San Franciscothrough his eyes, from the brassy bustle of Fisherman’s Wharf to the laid-back legacy of Haight-Ashbury’s Summer of Love. Watching sunsets from his car, with its scents of leather and pine. And far more intimate recollections …
Why would I want to deny the episode, or – worse still – forget it? It had happened, deepened my experience of life, formed the person I was today.
The bubblesstarted to fade, exposing my arms. I noticed faint red fingerprints where Troy had grabbed me; and the angrier mark underneath, where he’d dug his nail into my skin. Difficult to reconcile this display of aggression with the man I’d known, and with the memories I’d just been rediscovering. Except that perhaps it pointed to some sort of inner turmoil, stirred up by seeing me again.
Of courseI had older, deeper wounds; but they were psychological and self-inflicted. And the fact that they were at last starting to heal was largely down to my feelings for someone else. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, battling a rush of emotion. Somewhere on a nearby street, a table for two was reserved in the name of Jack Smith: a poignant symbol of what might have been, but was now in jeopardy.
Could I make things right between us? I forced my analytical mind to summarise what I knew about him. He was a man who responded to actions more than words, whose personal loyalties were strong, but who was still working through the fallout from his father’s death. His long-term relationship with fellow sufferer Karina, instead of helping, had intensified feelings of guilt and inadequacy –perhaps for both of them. Yet he had co-operated surprisingly well with my coaching offer of rapport, openness and trust: responding to the deep-dive requests, sharing the tragic story of his father, respecting the rules I’d put in place between us – until I broke them.
Now, in whatever capacity – whether as his coach, friend, or lover – it seemed I had let him down. Which meant that I believedhim when he said that he’d already blocked my mobile phone number. I needed to understand his reasons for leaving, and in return I needed a chance to explain.
A chance to explain … That had been Troy’s request earlier, and I’d refused point blank. What if Jack did the same to me? I couldn’t blame him for it. Bad enough that he’d felt somehow betrayed and walked out in the first place; evenworse that he’d apparently changed his mind and returned, only to find me with Troy. Correction: to find me being kissed by Troy, without any obvious resistance. Jack had reacted with what I recognised as fight-or-flight, an acute stress response to a threat – either perceived or real. Now I needed to convince him that the attempted kiss belonged to the first category, not the second.
Buthe was on a train back to Manchester while I was still in London. A North-South divide that, at this moment, felt even wider than two hundred miles …
I got out of the bath and wrapped myself in a towel, debating whether to get dressed and go home; eventually, however, I secured the door and slipped between the sheets. They were cool and unwelcoming, so different from last night. Yet I decidedto stay in the hotel as planned, sleep in the bed we’d shared. Not because I expected him to come back, but because I could pretend he was still here.
I lay still, while my mind raced through a plan of action. The best way – the only way – to explain everything was face to face; I reached for my phone and looked up the timetable for trains to Manchester. The first one in the morning wasshortly after eight o’clock – I could get a taxi to Grimshaw, as I’d done on my last visit. Stupid thought. He’d hardly be at the office on a Sunday – and I had no idea where else to find him.
There was always Midge and Bill. Could I ask them to phone him and suggest lunch – Corleone’s perhaps – so that I could turn up in their place? But that would mean taking them into my confidence; inwhich case I might as well abandon my play-acting and ask point blank where he lived.
Except the only contact information I had for Midge and Bill was a postal address.
I searched the online phone book, but could find no McGraws listed in Threlkeld; they must be ex-directory. I chewed my lip; how could I reach them, short of getting a taxi to Blencathra Lodge from the nearest station?And then it came to me – Midge and her paintings. I typed in ‘Midge McGraw, artist’, clicked on the first link that returned and almost whooped with delight. Her work was featured on a regional arts and crafts website, and her details included an email address that looked like a personal one.
It took a ridiculously long time to compose a short message:
Dear Midge,
I need to talk to you – tonight, if possible. Please could you send me the best contact number?
With kind regards,
Alicia
There, it was done; I just had to hope that she was someone who checked her emails regularly. I scrambled out of bed and made a cup of tea. Another reminder of the night before, and Jack’s voice:Got anything stronger?I chose peppermint,in an attempt to hold onto my hard-won serenity.
My phone pinged. I snatched it up, saw that Midge had replied and dialed her number – before I could change my mind.
She answered on the second ring. ‘Alicia?’
‘Yes. Sorry to bother you, it’s just—’ I hesitated, unsure how much to tell.
‘Is it about Jack?’
‘Yes, I need to – oh Midge, I don’t know where to start.’
‘Why not at the beginning?’
I carried the cup of tea to the bedside table and settled myself against the pillows, on the side where he’d slept.Deep breath – stay calm.‘It depends which beginning you mean. The imaginary one, when we told you we’d met at the ballet – or the real one, when I went to his office on an executive coaching assignment.’
After that, it all spilled out.The instant attraction, and my refusal to acknowledge it … The complicated legacy of my relationship with Troy … My reluctant agreement to start the coaching … The suggested role play in the Lakes, and Jack’s list of justifications … The realisation that a different agenda was emerging … Our separate decisions to bring the coaching to an end … His surprise trip to London, and its natural outcome… My surprise meeting with Troy, and its unintended consequences.
